impolitic eye

PPS

2012-01-24T19:25:00.000-05:00

I couldn't close without hitting post 900. Let's just let the world speak for itself...

Say good night, Gracie.

2012-01-24T19:20:00.002-05:00

I started this blogging experiment in the spring of 2004 as an outlet for political writing urges. Over the years, it grew to encompass parenting, music, beer, food, graphic design and myriad other things. In recent months, I've neglected the blog sadly. It has come to be a nagging burden, something I want to get back to and can't find the time for, something that helped define a period of my life.

The thing is I am beginning to say good bye to that period of my life. As I look around me now, I see a whole new set of challenges — a child who is growing up, a business in the advanced planning stages, new relationships and efforts to rebuild burned bridges, a whole new set of life and financial goals, and a growing puppy.

Each one of these demands my feet being on the real ground more than the virtual ground. And truth be told, this blog slipped off track a couple years ago and never really found a new direction. Recognizing that and recognizing the new realities of my life going forward, it is time to say good bye.

I've had fun, and maybe I'll come back in a new form. You can still find me on Twitter and maybe elsewhere. In the meantime, so long and thanks for putting up with me for a few thousand words here and there.

Paul

P.S. — I've been thinking about this for weeks, but my friend Jason deserves a hat tip for taking a similar step first.

A year comes, a year goes.

2012-01-02T23:23:00.002-05:00

Put simply, 2011 was a strange year. It was full of endings and beginnings, full of lessons, full of pain, full of happy memories. Of course, every year could fall under that description, but 2011 seemed full of much larger and more intense events.

Beginning the year, I was engaged. At the end of the year, I was in a new relationship and figuring out what to do with the house I had bought with my ex-fiancée. I spent the second half of the year dealing with PTSD and learning remarkable lessons about relationships and partnerships. My daughter turned into a tween, and I learned how to reconnect with her. Echoes of 20 years ago filled the year. I began the year employed at one company and ended it as a contractor at another. The year began with changes in brewing and business planning and ended with plenty of lessons learned and plenty more to learn.

On New Years Eve, a fellow single dad answered one of my comments about 2011 by saying "Instead of resolutions, I think I'm going to make a list of lessons learned in 2011." At risk of leaving some out, here is a short list of the lessons taken in this year:

Budget time and money. You will have more time and more money for what you want.
Don't try to cram extra things in to small amounts of time. You will accomplish more and feel less stressed out by what needs to be done.
Finish tasks. Finish it before you pick up anything else. You will save time and stress.
Be where you say you're going to be when you say you're going to be there. Friends, partners and lovers will trust you more.
Don't promise things you can't deliver. Again: trust.
Use the right tool for the task and pay attention to process — whether you're cooking, building, brewing or whatever. You will save time and effort and have a better product.
Cutting corners isn't worth it. Nothing finishes as well as it would if you did it the right way.
Bourbon barrels and imperial stout were made for each other.
Silicon cooking tools are worth having. As is the perfect cast iron pan. Take care of what you have, and it will always treat you well.
Beverages really do taste better out of the right glassware.
Think about where each dollar you spend is going. Who is it helping and what will you get in return for it?
Spend the extra few minutes with the people who are important to you. A little goes a long way.
If you get another chance, do it right. This rule applies to everything.

I'll add a piece or two to this as it seems appropriate. For the moment, though, it makes a pretty good foundation for 2012. Life really is simple if you let it be.

Cheers.

Blur: the lost year.

2011-12-06T11:00:00.001-05:00

How it got to be December and how I managed to go two months without a single good blog post is a little baffling to me. Time flies, but this year seems to have vanished. The changes that have happened amidst that woosh are just as baffling. The kid has begun growing up in ways that have brought their own surprises. We lost a cat and gained a puppy. I lost a fiancée and gained back some parts of myself that had been submerged. I discovered the hell of PTSD and the beginning of healing. I remembered lessons I'd forgotten. We revisited places I haven't seen in 20 years and saw friends I haven't seen in longer than that. I learned important lessons about partnership, friendship, and being good to the world in general. And I continue to tackle lessons and changes that have been years in the making.

At the risk of hyperbole, I can fairly say that the past year has been a period of more growth and lessons than any other period of change in my 41 years.

I had originally planned to write this post about the lessons and mistakes, but it seems redundant to cover what has already been covered in therapy and to a lesser extent on here. Some day, I may fill in the blanks, but I need a little more perspective on all that has happened before I can truly understand all that has been taken away and handed to me.

For now, what I am doing is working harder — working harder at business and work, at being a patient parent, at being a partner, at being a friend, at finishing the things I start and keeping the promises I make, at being stronger and more disciplined, and at asking for help when I need it.

As we kick into the holidays, I will likely be saying a lot of thank-yous to friends who stuck by us through everything, to partners who called me on my failings, to people I hurt because I had lost my way in one fashion or another. Mostly, I am grateful that life sometimes has room for second chances.

What's wrong with this world #2 (WWWTW2)

2011-11-03T11:18:00.002-04:00

Cheerleader Frog and Football Player Frog. Er... froggles. Need I say more?

What's wrong with this world #1

2011-11-02T15:10:00.002-04:00

We are now so lazy that we can't even be bothered to cut up the Slim Jims to go with our processed cracker/cheese product.

Bookends

2011-09-28T15:34:00.000-04:00

This was a summer of crazy weather and personal journeys through hell and back. It was also a summer of lessons and growth, and it began and ended with concerts at the Charlottesville Pavilion.

The first show was The Arcade Fire in early June. The night was hot as hell at show time — well past 90 degrees still. The band turned it on, though. The energy was great. I got texts from friends close to the stage and decided to hang back after aborted attempts to wade into the roiling, steamy crowd. it was a good show, though, and somewhere on my phone is a happy picture that belies the tensions that were already in the final stages of destroying our relationship.

The counterpoint to this show was seeing The Avett Brothers with the kid a couple weeks ago. Where the Arcade Fire show was tightly choreographed with a defined setlist. The Avetts show was the opposite. It felt loose from the moment they hit they stage, down to forgotten lyrics and missed cues. Still, it was a brilliant show. They were obviously happy to be on stage and engaged with the audience. And it felt more honest than the tighter, cleaner show at the beginning of the summer.

In the end, the bookends seem more stark than sandwiching a concert in on an "off" night in early June and taking the kid for a show I knew she'd enjoy in early September. (I wasn't the only dad who thought that, either, given the number of dads with daughters on the lawn that night.) The real kicker, though, is that I remember the tension at the first concert, and soon after, all hell broke loose. It wouldn't really calm down for another two months or so. In that time, life took some drastic turns; I discovered how powerful and insidious PTSD could be; and I spent a great deal of time gaining perspective, healing myself, and working on my relationship with the kid.

And that's where The Avett Brothers show really stands out in stark contrast. We barely made it to dinner at Mas Tapas and barely made it to the show, but I felt more relaxed than I'd felt in ages. Chalk the easing up to some positive turns in life in general and feeling like I'd finally been released from a strange, bad dream. Chalk it up to that, in part. But chalk it up also to watching the kid play with her glow sticks and smile as she curled up on the blanket next to me as the concert was winding down. And chalk it up to realizing — finally — that I was back in ways I hadn't been for years.

Mas and more Mas

2011-09-15T23:54:00.000-04:00

My previous visits to Mas in Charlottesville have all been exercises in controlled gluttony. You finish your meal realizing you have eaten perhaps double what you should have, but the food has been so good that the satiation feels grand.

Tonight, it was just the kid and me.

We scraped into the parking lot behind Mas with barely an hour to spare before The Avett Brothers concert. The wait was far too long, but the hostess had a bench with a not-really-table table that she could spare. Next thing you know, she is asking the kid which kind of juice soda she wants and what beer I want, and we're settling in at the nook in the corner. Not exactly perfect planning, but things were working out.

The kid was tired and distracted, but we covered the menu and put orders in. Anchovies, spinach and manchego salad, hummus, lamb sausage, and empanada with Caremont chevre. The dishes came out with remarkable speed, particularly considering how busy the restaurant was.

The kid tried the anchovies; she wasn't sure about them, but it was a start. She liked the hummus though it was a tad spicy. The spinach salad? She hated the dressing. Hated it. One of the servers stopped by, and I took a step I rarely take which was to say that the salad wasn't to her liking. Next thing we know a comped spinach salad with oil and vinegar arrives. She wolfed it down, and minutes later we were paying the tab to get to the show.

How were my dishes? Terrific. The empanada with Caremont chevre, jalapenos and applewood smoked ham chunks was delicious. The merguez with a habanero-cider chutney was delicious. The anchovies were as delicate as they could be. And I could only finish the empanada. As I told the excellent hostess, one of these days I will remember to order half of what I want to order.

The real win there wasn't the food, however, it was the service. They took care of us in ways that will be sure to bring me back.Kudos.

Culinary Catch-up...

2011-09-09T15:19:00.003-04:00

Between the Maine trip, the puppy, general growth and healing, and management of a pithy nine-year old, I've written a half dozen blog posts — in my head. Ah well... Friday is as good a time as any to do a little catching up.

The lobster in Maine was good as always, but I have to admit that I'm more a fan of crab these days. Lobster is rich and delicious, but I like the softer flavor of the peaky-toe crabs we have up there. The crab cakes are delicate, and adding crab to a lobster risotto made for a delicious rethinking of a classic.

The other night, I had to scrape together a quick entree for a dinner party. There would be kids involved, as well as an adult who has cut meat out of her diet. Without time to go to the store, I pulled a bag of mixed seafood — scallops, shrimp, and calimari — from Trader Joe's out of the freezer. I sauteed up a couple cloves of garlic and a small, chopped onion in olive oil, added a bit of crushed chili and paprika. I sauteed the seafood quickly and added a half cup (or so) of red wine added. That was followed by a can of diced tomatoes and a cup (or so) of vegetable stock. Simmer for 20 minutes and serve with cous cous. Call it a poor man's bouillabaisse or perhaps a scrappy Portugese seafood stew. Whatever you call it, it was great. Thank god for a well-stocked larder.

The kid has begun to take her own stock in cooking now. I made Penne al Tonno last night for a quick tasty dinner, and she asked to make her own pot of pasta. Why? So she could make her own pasta for the next day's lunch. On vacation, she made two excellent grilled cheese sandwiches for me. What's next? Risotto?

Recent beer stand-outs have included a very nice seasonal bitter at Gritty McDuff's, an excellent Scotch ale from Atlantic Brewing, the BFM merlot cask-aged Grand Cru, and enough Life and Limb to satisfy me until they release it again.

Friday Fun — Old Favorites

2011-09-09T10:28:00.002-04:00

I'm trying to lighten things up a bit here at Impolitic Eye, so this week I've decided to dig up a few old favorites. Cheers.

I first came across this Morcheeba track a few years ago, and it pops up from time to time when I need a reminder that the darker parts of me are worth letting go.

Wilco at its poppy best. And as always, Tweedy's lyrics are filled with truth.

I had the chance to see these guys on a last-minute whim in June. The night was hotter than hell, but they put on a great performance regardless.

Restoration and Maine

2011-08-28T23:17:00.004-04:00

I'm sitting in our house listening to the after-effects of Hurricane Irene. She turned inland earlier, and we are now getting the windy side. The house sounds like a subway as the train is coming into the station. Earlier, we had an old maple come down next to the house, and when I say next to the house, I mean that it is touching the house. And it's a big tree. The kid woke up and wouldn't go back to bed for a while.

After a summer of relationship and PTSD hell, tons of transitions and personal learning, and a week of earthquakes and a hurricane that almost scuttled our trip up here, I am about ready for some respite. Some sense of moving forward. Cooking again. Talking about beer, literature, and whatever else seems cool again. New music. Time with the kid. New horizons, and maybe a trip or two this fall. Certainly, there is a puppy on the horizon, and that's as much of a new start as anyone could ask for.

In any case, Maine. I have a love-hate relationship with our history up here. As the youngest of eight grandchildren in an old New England family, warmth isn't exactly the first word I'd use when describing my memories of summers up here. Nonetheless, it's one of the places I know best and one of the places that has been most restorative at times in my life. Driving up from Boston yesterday after we had flown out just ahead of the hurricane, I spent a great deal of time remembering my visits here over the years — the food, the music, the beer, the company, the quiet moments, the joyful moments introducing the place to people. I remembered it in part because I had only ever been up here this late in the season once, 20 years ago, when I last experienced a hurricane.

More than that, the memories came at me because so much has happened this year, and because I am doing so much rebuilding. And this is a place that has allowed me those moments in the past. When we got here, I opened a Geary's Ale and watched my mother and the kid make crab cakes with the local peeky-toe crab meat. It's a delicate meat that has a softer, less buttery flavor than the backfin crab meat we get in Virginia. But in the past, taking over the preparation of the crab cakes and corn would have been my purview. This time, however, I was happy to sit back and watch grandmother and grand-daughter work as a team. Not only did it mean I got to relax after a long day, but it was a reminder that sometimes we can let other people do what they do well.

Even if I had an opinion about a touch of this or a touch of that in the crab cakes, the moment wasn't about control. It was perfect as is. And the food was perfect when we ate the corn, crab cakes, and local leaf lettuce (something we miss in VA right now) and tomato salad. Letting life be perfect and happy as-is (but with potential for greatness) is something I'm trying to remember as part of this rebuilding.

Friday Fun — A day late — Hurricane Edition

2011-08-27T22:52:00.002-04:00

In honor of today and everyone in RVA (and beyond), I'll offer these few selections...

nostalgia in the present

2011-08-23T10:44:00.001-04:00

It's like my youth and my present are colliding in one divine bit of hilarity...

Friday Fun

2011-08-19T21:25:00.002-04:00

With apologies to friends who may not be Ani fans, this is just a delicious example of some of her best songwriting...

No video here, but this is an all-time favorite of mine from Ani's second album and the days before she was famous.

And just to prove that I'm not in a complete Ani mode, Wilco. One of their all-time best songs...

A puppy update...

2011-08-18T11:43:00.003-04:00

Has there ever been a cuter picture than this? If so, I haven't seen it.

Oh, and this little guy comes home in just over two weeks.

Breaking Away

2011-08-16T10:00:00.005-04:00

On July 30th, Rockett's Landing was the site of the second annual Dragon Boat Festival in Richmond. I'd heard about last year's races through friends who rowed for the Mekong team. A couple of them had tried to get me to join this year's team, but sometimes I hate to commit to things so I pshawed the idea.

As the weekend approached, however, it was going to be one of my first weekends without the kid in a long time, and since so many other things had recently changed in life too, I was a little at sea with what to do with myself. Going out of town wasn't an option with gas as expensive as it is, and working on the house was still presenting an emotional challenge. Cheering on some friends at the Dragon Boat Races seemed like just the thing. Cheering on, I say.

When I arrived, however, Chief Beer Officer An told me to register — in case they needed me. Minutes later, I was needed. Apparently, this had been the plan all along; they just didn't bother to tell me. I grabbed a life jacket and joined the other 20 members of our boat to wait on line.

Dragon boat racing has apparently become a popular fundraiser across the country. The company running the races comes down from Canada, brings the boats, paddles and life jackets, sets up the course, and brings coaches for the competing boats. Teams are formed by companies or groups who pay the entrance fees, much like any other athletic fundraiser. And much like any other athletic fundraiser, a lot of the people who are rowing look like avid athletes. Some even had their own gear and equipment, like paddles in zipped neoprene cases.

The Mekong teams? Not so much. We were a bit of a ragtag bunch of beer lovers, artists, beer distributors, musicians, farmers, and various and sundry others. We were the Bad News Bears to the spiffy teams around us. And we were there to have fun.

Dragon boat races are broken into various heats of 500 and 1000 meters. The key to moving the boat forward is more in weight distribution and finding a steady rhythm than in power-paddling. Of course, it helps if you have a strong team. Before each race, you have warm-up periods during which the coach and drummer work to find a good sync for the boat.

In the first heat, Team A came in second, and continued to improve through the next couple of races. They won a cup in our umbrella division and didn't lose again until the finals when they rowed down three people.

When our team first hit the water, we lost by more than a boat length. We'd paddled hard, but the drummer and coach were out of sync, and the right rhythm was missing. Over the next few heats, Team A continued to do well. We improved with a change in drummers — kudos to Rasta Russell whose voice and sense of humor kept us moving — but we were still lagging in our races.

The final race we rowed was a medal and cup heat for the C Division. As we pulled away, a new coach asked us to show him our "set." The set is the position at which you hold your paddle. He immediately corrected our position so we used our backs more than our arms. Then he asked us to take three strokes. Russell counted off, and we took three strokes. He told us to slow down and get our paddle blades all the way into the water. We tried again, and this time the boat moved differently. The deeper, more measured stroke worked with the boat's natural inertia and propelled us along. We tried a few more times, and each one was better. We whispered to each other about being able to feel the difference.

It was time to line up at the start. We pulled up to the line and waited the starting horn. When it came, we followed his advice but started behind. Before long though, the rhythm steadied, and we started to pull ahead. Little by little, we nosed ahead until before long we were completely into the rhythm, one body working together to steadily propel the long, flat boat. Russell was beating the drum and calling out the count as we moved into the final stretch, and we were all counting with him. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Until we crossed the finish line. With one of the best times of the day. A boat length and a half ahead of the second place boat.

From the shore, the rest of the Mekong crew was cheering us on, and shouting "1. 2. 3. Beer!" We were clapping each other on the backs, high-fiving, saying "Can you believe that? That was amazing." And so much more. The Bad News Bears had won the Little League World Series again, and the feeling of being handed those medals was oh-so-sweet. I thought as we were walking up from the dock that it was also the most work I had given my shoulder in more than four years — and it felt good.

I'll puzzle through the metaphors and lessons of all this later, but the victory felt sweet. So, too, did the truly zen feeling of working together and understanding in my tired arms and back the natural momentum of doing something the right way.

Friday Fun — Live

2011-08-12T10:06:00.002-04:00

If you haven't discovered Bandwidth Sessions yet, I heartily recommend checking them out. Small acoustic performances by some great artists in random locations in Belfast. Good stuff!

The National - Slow Show (Part 2 of 3) from Bandwidth on Vimeo.

Lisa Hannigan - Ocean And A Rock from Bandwidth on Vimeo.

BANDWIDTH / BRENDAN BENSON / "Baby On A Rug" from Bandwidth on Vimeo.

A Dog's Life

2011-08-10T13:28:00.005-04:00

Last March, I sent my dog Reilly to live with my mother and stepfather in Dayton. He was getting older and slower and was having serious difficulty with the hardwood floors and stairs in my apartment. In addition, L and I were beginning to look at houses, and it dawned on me that he might not survive such a move, especially if there would be more floors and stairs involved. Since my mother and stepfather are retired and have a house with most of the living area on one floor and since they doted on Reilly, it seemed worth asking if they wanted to take on the responsibility of a senior dog.

I talked to my mother, and after a few seconds of thought, she said they would love to do it. The kid was against the idea; she thought Reilly would miss us. It was true, I allowed, but I pointed out the differences between our house and theirs and their life and ours. And then I asked where she thought he would have the better life.

And what a life it has been so far. He has gotten energy back and played with puppies and other dogs, had the best care and groomings you can imagine, and probably licked more bowls of ice cream than I would ever have approved. He has spent whole summers in Maine the past two years, and he's still kicking. There are the occasional health scares and notes from my mother about little declines, but — yeah — still kicking.

It's a bittersweet victory, though. Some time over the past year, I realized how much I not only missed the pup, but how much I missed what a dog brought to my life. The time for walks with L and the kid melted little by little, as did my patterns. I no longer had the same incentive to get up and get my blood moving to greet the day. There was less incentive to walk off the thoughts of the day or reconnect over a half-hour's walk. Though Reilly had gotten too slow for the kinds of walks and hikes we used to take, I began to miss those too. Most of all, I missed the energy of having a dog around — the unconditional love, the comforting presence of him sleeping between our room and the kid's.

For practical reasons — time, money, extra hair around the house, a new dog wasn't in the picture until recently. The call of puppies became strong, especially with the opening of the farmers markets. And then word came that a friend had rescued an Aussie who also happened to be pregnant. As of September, there will be a new herding dog in our life. Named by the kid, L, and another friend, it's name is tentatively Snickers.

Friday Fun — Goin' retro

2011-08-05T11:32:00.002-04:00

Going back in time for this week. How about a little Rosemary Clooney...

And truly amazing version of a Stephen Foster classic. Ladies and gentlemen, Mavis Staples...

Dig Nina's get-up in this live performance from the early 70s. Brilliant.

Collateral damage

2011-08-04T11:52:00.007-04:00

Warning: Navel-gazing post ahead.

One thing I have come to realize recently is just how toxic I became over the past few years. I took everything that had been thrown at me over the years and hid it away behind the pain and trauma of the shooting. Then, I took the pain and trauma of the shooting and hid it away. Unfortunately, I did so without adequately confronting what had happened and what it had done to me. As a result, I became the trauma.

One of the consequences of this, I've realized, is that I became a weight to bear for those around me. This weight didn't make itself known so much in big, overt ways as it did in small-but-growing compromises that I forced those around me to make. And it meant that they began to bear my weight. The scary part is that I not only didn't realize what I was doing — and probably didn't listen when confronted with it — but that I don't remember whole swaths of time from the past few years.

As I wrote in an earlier post, the feeling is that of waking up from a long, boozy, bad dream. You're not quite sure what's real and not for a while. In fact there are whole periods of the past two years that I simply don't remember. I recently tried to remember when something happened at the kid's school. In my mind, it had happened this spring; in reality, it happened almost a year and a half ago. This wouldn't bother me if it was an isolated example, but I am regularly reminded of conversations I had completely lost, of things that happened that I had completely lost, of a rush of daily life that completely eluded me. This is not a fun feeling.

In fact, one of the most distressing parts of this process are the moments when I spiral backward. I don't necessarily beat myself up for things that happened or didn't happen; I realize I just wasn't there. In pieces and parts — when I most needed to — I'd break through the fog and show up for a few minutes, hours, days, or maybe even weeks. But by and large, life just carried me along with it while I fell farther and farther into myself.

In the end, a series of life circumstances and realizations started chipping away at the walls I'd built. And as the walls cracked, I started to lash out. When I had a brief glimmer of what I was doing, I shored up the walls. Until the shoring up started cracking too. All the toxicity that I'd been trapping behind those walls started dribbling out in comments and fights and anger.

Around the time this was coming to a head, my partner Kevin was injured by an exploding keg. I took him to the emergency room at MCV. It was the first time I'd been there since the shooting. Walking past the ambulance bays was difficult. And then two weeks later, the keg blew up at me — blew up at my heart. And the walls came down.

I started shaking that day, and haven't quite stopped yet. My life was in a shambles. My heart was in a shambles. My body was in a shambles. I had forgotten to bleed the pressure on the keg — and on my life. Collateral damage was all around, and I hadn't seen it for months, years.

Time to rebuild.

Culinary therapy, pt. 2

2011-08-01T15:28:00.005-04:00

This past Sunday, I invited one of my business partners over for a grilling session. It is the first time I've really had anyone over since the meltdown in June, and it's appropriate that it was him.

First off, his girlfriend has recently returned to Boston for job reasons, and they are splitting their time between the cities. Not exactly fun, but sometimes you do what you have to. Regardless, I know a thing or two about feeling at loose ends and not necessarily wanting to eat — one of our most important social activities — alone. Since the kid was spending an extra night with her mom, I was feeling a bit at loose ends too. The thing is I didn't want to go out or order in — or eat another frozen pizza or other pre-prepared meal. No. I wanted to reacquaint myself with the kitchen. And, second, we have some bizarre Boston connections.

The day before I had picked up spicy lamb sausage from Tuckahoe Farms at the South of the James Market, as well as some beautiful heirloom tomatoes and peaches. Kevin added corn, greek feta and a few good beers. Except for the salad, we threw everything on a perfectly searing grill. The corn was prepped with olive oil and coarse ground sea salt and black pepper. The peaches were prepped with balsamic and some fleur de sel.

I need to get better about taking pictures, like some of my fellow bloggers, however, because every part of the meal came off perfectly. Throw a good conversation into the bargain, and you have the beginning of a return to civility and sanity.

Friday Fun — The Live Edition

2011-07-29T11:57:00.004-04:00

I love the energy in this track. Hell, they're even using the same synthesizer I once had.

Colin Hay brings this beautiful one to the table. It rings true for life as it is now. On top of that, he's playing a 12-string. Have I mentioned that I love 12-string guitars?

Here's an old favorite. It always grabs me when I hear it.

And one more from the classic singer-songwriter archives. Mister Browne, if you please.

Culinary therapy

2011-07-23T21:57:00.002-04:00

The past few days and weeks, I've been trying to reconnect with the kid. Long-time readers may wonder why I say "reconnect," but the truth is that the effects of the PTSD as well as other life experiences lately have made me realize that I've been disconnected from life in general for a while now. In particular, I've been lost to some of my closest relationships.

One of those relationships, I now realize, was with the kid. To wit, I spent some time the other day trying to remember when something happened this spring. And then I realized it was last spring. Then I caught a picture of her earlier from her birthday two years ago. In it, she was showing off the new earrings I'd had made for her. In my mind, the gift had happened last year. Time has vanished in scary ways.

That said, I've been waking up lately and beginning to reconnect with her and others in my life. As part of this waking up, I took the kid and her best friend since they were three to Water Country USA yesterday. The past two years, we've had adult company on the trip — the first year another friend's mother and last year L. This year, I decided to go solo. Not only am I trying to reconnect with her and other people, but I'm trying to reconnect with myself. It was a brilliant trip — and as always full of horrible food. Afterward, though, we grabbed sushi at our favorite Richmond sushi place. It isn't the best, but it is good enough. And then the kid was treated to dessert at Secco with much of the restaurant singing "Happy Birthday" to her. It was a brilliant moment, thanks to some good friends.

The real therapy began in the morning, however. I finally started cooking again. And by that I mean something other than prepping the simplest pasta dishes. Nope. The girls had a sleepover, and in the morning, we capped things off with homemade buckwheat waffles from my grandmother's 1929 waffle maker. Then, this evening, I had crab from the farmer's market, corn, and beautiful heirloom tomatoes to use. And despite the impending storm outside, I was determined to do crab cakes and corn on the grill.

I winged it on the crab cakes. I took in pieces I'd used from Joy and from Alice Waters, and made my own take on the cakes. Mayo, grain mustard, smoked paprika, lemon, parsley, sauteed carmen peppers and garlic in butter (sauteed in one of my new pans), and panko. A touch of salt. Just enough flavor to round out the crab and let it shine at the same time. Follow this by slow-cooking on foil over a wood-fired grill, add grilled corn and a simple tomato salad. Brilliant summer meal, right?

And it was, except for one thing. I changed the recipe with a tired kid in the house. Half a crab cake in, and she said they didn't taste good. At least she ate the half. Next time, I don't change the recipe if she has tired eyes.

Friday Fun — Redemption land

2011-07-22T22:18:00.004-04:00

Tom just kills it with this one. I don't have enough words to say about the vibe, the lyrics, and the brilliant storytelling.

And this may be one of Ben Folds best tunes in an ouevre of truly excellent songwriting.

I saw Michelle Shocked perform this at The Bottom Line in New York in 1994. She'd just broken with her record company and was touring behind "Kind-Hearted Woman" and selling the CDs at the shows. The first half of the show, she played "Kind-Hearted Woman" all the way through. The second half she took requests from the audience. When she played "Anchorage," the friend who sang at the wedding mentioned in the song came up on stage with her. They sang for nearly 12 minutes. Utterly brilliant and one of the most honest performances I've ever seen.

And a classic from the Avetts that, of course, references New York.

stuck, frozen in time

2011-07-19T10:18:00.002-04:00

Stasis has taken hold. I have reached the point of being so overwhelmed by everything going on that I simply don't make decisions now. Action has fallen apart.

The smallest and most concrete example of this was putting together an IKEA chair last night. It is a simple chair, simpler than the classic Poang. The kid and I bought it to replace a chair in our studio room. I read the directions — simple enough, right? And twice I got it wrong. In fact, I stared and stared at the arm/leg to figure out why it wouldn't fit correctly. Until I realized that it was simply the wrong side. The realization shouldn't have taken 10 minutes.

The real problem is that this is spidering out to other parts of my life. This week, there was a program at the kid's summer camp for which I completely forgot to submit a permission slip. I had picked up the slip but never remembered to submit it. I have forgotten to send emails for weeks on end. At the farmers market the other day, I found myself staring blankly at vegetables without any idea what I needed. On an outing with the kid and a friend and his kids later that day, the spiral got so bad I couldn't even remember what I'd done the day before. In fact, it wasn't until I made a quick decision to rent a kayak that things began to turn.

It seems to be very focused activities that keep me moving right now. Projects at work. Freelance work. Building something simple. I'd love to add cooking to the list, but food hasn't tasted good in weeks — a couple recent dinners at Secco are the exception to this. Business planning has become a struggle. Kayaking worked because I had to focus on balancing and remember how to navigate the small plastic shell around a small scenic lake. It was a good time to slow the head and the heart down.

By the time I brought the kayak back, I was able to be a little bit present with the kids and my friend. It wasn't perfect, but at least I was there.

***********************************

Part 2: An ounce of what PTSD feels like...

Your skin has been turned inside out.
You jump when something brushes you.
A sound triggers random pain.
A louder noise makes you jump and breathe yourself down from a panic attack.
Someone standing in your way makes you feel trapped.
A crowd makes you feel trapped.
Feeling trapped equals a panic attack.
Talking about what happened makes your hands tingle and your face numb.
Tears (and a raised voice) come easier than you'd like.
Sometimes you find yourself staring at nothing but a memory.

Friday Fun

2011-07-15T10:07:00.002-04:00

I've been veering in a couple directions this week, so I don't really have a clear theme. But such is life.

No video with this, but it's an old Tom Waits track I'd forgotten about. Nice, quiet, bittersweet song with some great piano playing and before he really took on the "persona."

And the Avetts are always good for melancholy moments...

Then, as I was also thinking about the lyrics of The Avett Brothers "I and Love and You," I started thinking about Brooklyn, and this one came to mind. My friend Phil put it on a mixtape when I left the borough for grad school in Arkansas. It was a hell of a tape for a hell of a departure.

I am a metaphor.

2011-07-14T09:17:00.000-04:00

Dear blog-friends,

Forgive me if I spend the next few days, weeks, whatever blathering on a bit about myself again. I'm going through a pretty rough time between re-enactments of shooting and divorce traumas. It's kind of occupying a good chunk of my mind. And I plan on writing about it. It may not be my best writing. Hell, it may not even be worth reading, but I'm going to find words under my fingers again. It's been too long.

In the end, chances are the blog will be back to an advanced version of its old self — snark, music, food, beer, travel, parenting, politics, and Oxford commas — when I start to get back to myself. It's a long story. Stick around, and I'll tell some of it.

IE

Shellshock

2011-07-13T13:36:00.004-04:00

I start randomly shaking. I can't eat, at least not much. My sleep cycle is shot. (And that's an ironic word to use.) As I try to maintain and regain some sort of control in day to day life, I want to scream. People ask a lot of questions right now because I find myself bringing up the shooting — or some incredulous friend will — in random social situations. And it hurts to talk about it. My shoulder begins to hurt again. My hands tremble. I want to run away. My skin feels like it's separated from my body. And I realize there is no longer any difference between physiological and psychological. Fight or flight is who I've become.

Friday Fun — Songs that pricked up my ear edition

2011-07-08T14:32:00.002-04:00

Putting some patterns back in place here...

A great one from E. Cool little illustrated video too.

And a little two-fer...

A random Pixies moment...

And The Hold Steady. Interesting acoustic version of the track...

Serious Matters

2011-07-05T10:29:00.002-04:00

After my mopey Friday Fun and a variety of leading Facebook and Twitter posts, I've had a lot of friends express concern for what is going on. It's nice to feel a community around, but it is strange at the same time. I am not typically a public person with my feelings and tend to be somewhat secretive about life in general. And yet, now I want to run out and scream at the world.

Last weekend, I was cleaning a keg during our usual Sunday brewing session. I had gotten out of the city the two nights before to clear my head after some pretty torrential life changes at home. I was still distracted, but I was following the mantra of keeping busy to keep my mind from exploding all over the place. The keg in question is an old style that is sealed with a wooden bung pounded in a hole in the side. To remove the bung, you screw a wood screw in and pop it out with a hammer.

After cleaning the keg and pushing sanitizer out through the tubing, I moved it into position to rack the beer from the fermenter. After pushing the liquid out, you need to release the CO2 pressure in the keg. I was distracted. I forgot to bleed the pressure. When I pulled the bung, it blew out at me with the force — and sound — of a gunshot. More than a week later, I can still feel the spot on my sternum where the bung hit. What's worse is my head.

Every part of the explosion forced me to re-experience the shooting. I melted down, stumbling into the yard behind the brewing garage, sobbing. Thankfully, a friend was there who happens to be a counselor at the VA. He stood with me for a while, until I was calm enough to join my partners again.

Everybody was very quiet after that. Except for a friend of a friend who said I should just meditate and readjust my attitude about the trauma from the shooting. I don't remember his exact words, but that was the gist. I snapped at him that it wasn't that easy, and he didn't understand.

In truth, I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to scream, DON'T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND? NO. BECAUSE NO ONE FUCKING UNDERSTANDS. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. And I would have repeated it over and over until I couldn't scream any more.

That's when I realized I had never really faced down and dealt with the trauma from the shooting. I had covered it over with a therapist who never really tackled it head-on, and I had covered over it a year and a half ago when I decided I would just let it go. Except I hadn't. It was far from gone, and small things triggered my fight-or-flight responses — small things I never tied to the experience. All I knew was that I was just under pressure and stress and snapping at the people around me.

Thanks to the friend who stood with me that morning, I began to realize what I hadn't recognized for the past four years. I jump at small noises. Big noises are impossible. I snap far too easily when the kid does something she shouldn't. I get jittery if I'm cornered or trapped. Crowds make me very, very uncomfortable. Sharing a space too closely is very difficult for me. And more. Sometimes I would react to things; sometimes I would just swallow the feeling.

In the end, then, I became that keg. I never released the pressure. I might bleed a bit as I was talking to my therapist and others, but what was really happening was the pressure was building up and building up. When I did release it, I still didn't recognized what was going on, so the pressure just began to build up again.

And in the end, I'm left wanting to scream at a random acquaintance: NO ONE UNDERSTANDS.

I hate the fact that I am re-living this trauma — and will need to go back into a different kind of therapy to tackle it. I hate the fact that writing this has left me trembling. I hate the fact that I see that keg and that gun as the same thing. I hate the fact that a popping balloon nearly left me in a puddle yesterday. I hate the fact that I am even jumpier around people than I was before.

But I'm grateful for it, too. It's like waking up from a long, boozy, bad dream. I've been shown an important lesson. The hard part will be learning it, but maybe just maybe I'll remember it. And maybe I will be able to make other people understand better, because I will understand it myself.

The return of Friday Fun — Mopey Edition

2011-07-01T15:11:00.002-04:00

Impolitic Eye may be a little more active in the near future. For now, my heart is heavy, but it's been a long time since I kept this going the way I meant to.

I've posted this before, but can't resist it this time.

Oh, Billy. You're so good. The lyrics. Listen to the lyrics.

And how well do these guys capture the fight between our better and worse natures? Brilliantly.

And finally a track that echoes for years for me...

A couple updates

2011-06-05T22:39:00.003-04:00

A couple months ago, I wrote about our experience taking the Coldwater Cru to Russian River Brewing for their Sour and Barrel-aged Beer Symposium. The beer was described as "sick" and young. Yvan de Baets of Brasserie de la Senne explained that in approximately three months, the slickness brought about by the pediococcus would disappear and the flavors would shine.

He was right. We uncapped a couple of bottles recently and were pleasantly surprised to discover that the sourness and oakiness of the beer shone. It was all the proof we needed to begin planning for more of these, and it's exciting to think about a barrel-aging room in the brewery.

**********************

As we move closer and closer to having the business plan finalized and ready for potential investors, we've begun to circle back around to questions of identity and branding. One question in particular that has been coming up is which beers to call our flagship brews. Piloting on the Brew-Magic, we've been able to get at least six recipes down that we're happy with, but obviously that is too many beers to lead with. Four is the max. Two might be even better.

But what to do when you like all of the beers, and they could all be great year-round drinkers? What beers do you lead with? Do you lead with the beers that are closer to commonly enjoyed styles? Or do you hit the market with beers that push the envelope? Ultimately, we're trying to find the right balance between popular styles (IPAs) and rustic styles that are more in keeping with our more creative brewing interests.

That said, dear reader, what are your favorite styles? What beers do you seek out AND return to? Let's hear it.

Swallowtail

2011-05-13T13:17:00.002-04:00

I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. Even writing that sentence stalls me out for the next thought.

Abbie was a sweet and feisty kid. She devoured hot dogs, strawberries, cherries, cherry tomatoes, salmon, mac and cheese, steak, you name it. She was tall for her age, or at least she was before the cancer hit. She swam like a fish, and her dad and I reveled in tossing the kids in the pool through the summer. That's where we saw them most of the time, the pool, since the girls attended different elementary schools and life had a bad habit of keeping all of us busy through the rest of the year. If I have a single regret after Abbie's passing, it is that I let the busy-ness of life keep us too far apart from them between September and May.

So, yeah... I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. Word of a mass in her abdomen came at the end of the summer two years ago. We had a last Sunday dinner at the pool the week before she was due for the next round of tests and surgery. It was a blustery September afternoon two weeks after Labor Day, and I was determined to close out the pool season despite the weather. Abbie and her parents came, as did a few other families. The kids played, getting wet and cold one last time for the season, and then plowed through hot dogs, pork chops, salads, fruit and who knows what else. Abbie had been introduced to her therapy dog, and we all knew things didn't look good. It didn't seem to matter, though. She was as feisty and strong as always.

A week later, the news was that she had stage IV Rhabdomyosarcoma Embryonal. Stage IV. Those words stop me as much as the first sentence.

Abbie's strength rushed behind her as she fought a tough battle that fall, winter and spring. The surgeries went well, though. The cancer had done damage, but hadn't gone as far as it could have. The chemo brutalized her body. There were tough times, and we saw them occasionally. But a year ago, the kid attended Abbie's eighth birthday party. She was pale and had lost her hair, but the spunk was knocking that damn cancer out of her body. You could see it. And when pool season hit again, she had had the chance to ring the bell at the cancer clinic signaling the end of her treatments. She was clear, and by the end of the summer, the chemo port had been removed and she'd been able to swim again.

She demolished more strawberries. More cherries and tomatoes. Cupcakes at the kid's birthday party. And we all looked at her as the miracle kid. She really was. And her energy and spirit were a gift to everyone around her.

A few weeks later, though, the tide turned. On a routine check-up, they discovered part of her lung had collapsed. Within two weeks, the tumor they found was putting out 200 ml of fluid or more a day. It was almost exactly a year after the first surgery. And this time the cancer was back with a vengeance. The kid and I visited her in the pediatric ICU one evening to say hi. Abbie was groggy but insistent that we stay and talk to her, even though the nurses made us promise to make it a short visit.

Over the months since, I kept tabs on her progress through the caringbridge.org site they used to communicate with family and friends. They went through every possible chemo treatment and multiple surgeries. The cancer ravaged her body, but she kept fighting back through a Make-a-Wish Disney cruise, through a trip to New York, through hospitalizations. We weren't there at the end, but she had asked her friends to come visit the day after the doctors decided there was no further medical intervention. they gave her a manicure as she wore an oxygen mask and couldn't speak. That night, she let go and passed away in her parents' arms, listening to her favorite songs by Justin Bieber.

The kid asked about her often as we got word of the worsening struggles. I made mental notes that we should see them more, take them things, do something. But time and the busy-ness of life and job transitions always got in the way. I kick myself a bit for letting that happen. Scratch that. I kick myself a lot for letting that happen. The kid and I talked about it, and she is glad she got to see Abbie before things really trailed off, when that spunk will stay in the memory rather than tubes and medication and pain. I worry that this reaction skirts the grief I want her to feel, but the night after the funeral and the celebration at Abbie's school, the kid climbed on my lap and fell asleep.

And it occurred to me that maybe the kid's reactions weren't so much detachment as fear. She's seen a lot in her years, from divorce to my shooting to her mom and me struggling to iron out our parenting relationship to Abbie's death. I suspect she has learned a lot, and that some of these lessons will take years to sort out. Lord knows I'm still sorting out my own lessons — including the one about not letting the mundanity life get in the way of important things.

So yeah... I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. At the end of the funeral, the kids were given butterflies to release. Each had a monarch in an envelope, and Abbie's parents were given a swallowtail to release. The monarchs flitted through the church courtyard, but the swallowtail landed on Jeff's hand and stayed there for a long time. After a couple of pictures were taken, the yellow swallowtail launched itself up and flew out of the courtyard and over the roof. That afternoon, Abbie's school closed down for a celebration of her life. Everyone had their nails painted, there was a dance party in the gymnasium, the yard was full of moon bounces, the kids got snow cones and popcorn, and a little after 3:00, while the school choir sang "Hallelujah," the kids released hundreds of purple, pink, and white balloons into the sky and chanted her name. the boy who had broken down in tears when he tried to speak at the funeral earlier, who was Abbie's earliest friend as a baby, found his voice and the microphone and thanked the entire school for making her life wonderful.

Abbie is gone now, but she touched more lives than anyone can count. And that means she'll live on forever.

slipping, redux

2011-05-04T13:46:00.003-04:00

A little over six months ago, I wrote about what happens when a restaurant starts slipping. For places you count on, it starts with a meal or a part of a meal that just isn't as good as it used to be. You let it slide because the kitchen has always been good; maybe they're just having an off night. The chef isn't there. The staff changed. Whatever. You go back because you count on the next meal being as good as the ones you've had before.

Except it isn't. That next meal might even be worse. Or just continuing in the same, mediocre vein you saw in the last one. Or maybe the staff just isn't as enthusiastic as they'd always been.

For us, it finally happened with a long-time favorite. The rumbling started when news that the chef-owner had sold his stake and was moving on to another project. This guy has a track record of leaving restaurants, though, and they always seem to survive — and continue to do well. So, yeah. No big deal, right?

At least, it's no big deal when the kitchen sends out standards that are just as good as they were and adds a new dish or two that gives you hope. But what about when the opposite happens? Because it has. First, there was the standard appetizer/entrée item that L always gets — a set of seafood cakes — that came out less flavorful and with more breading than before, and the new entrée I ordered that was less than impressive. We gave them a pass, though, because that's what you do when you love the restaurant and they've always come through for you in the past.

Until the next meal. Until that beet salad that suddenly has pickled onions and peakéd micro-greens. Until the roast duck that comes out as tough as a state fair turkey leg. Until the mussels that are simply inedible — poor quality, and served in a bland, gloppy marinara sauce rather than a light tomato brodo. Until the bored staff spends too long in the kitchen hanging out, and the food takes almost an hour to arrive. On a slow night.

Nope. That's the point when you say Our favorite restaurant has slipped. We may not be back. And you hope the owners take notice and kick the kitchen back into gear.

What would you do?

Catching up, sort of

2011-04-16T23:30:00.003-04:00

For the record, I really want to write a post about different hops, malts, yeasts, and all the other random cool facts I've been learning lately. But that requires time. Time that I don't seem to have. In the meantime, I'll lean back a little more toward food.

As any regular or occasional reader of this blog knows, I like to push the locavore idea. A lot. But as I will quietly (and guiltily) admit, I am not always great at following my own advice when it comes to sticking to local production and seasonality. In fact, as I look back at what I purchase and cook and consume, I follow the seasonal doctrine far less than it seems like I should. Truth is, I just haven't found the balance between what I want to have around and what is available. And I'm lousy at preserving things for use out of season.

Since market season is kicking in around here, my pledge is this: to the best of my ability, produce that we prepare over the next several months (and perhaps longer) will be grown in season and locally when possible. My inspiration for this has been the kale and carrots I've purchased over the past couple of weeks. They reminded me what it was like to have food that had real flavor and real connection to soil near us. The next impetus was actually working on a friend's farm (more on this in another post); I hope to do this more in coming weeks and have a better appreciation for what connects us to what sustains us. The final push was using a rutabaga in tonight's red curry. It was a last minute whim, and one I'm glad for. The flavor was delicious, and it was nice to take a step or two out of my box. Moreover, it was good to see the kid eat it and enjoy it.

So... if I can be good about it... and find the time amidst work, parenting, trying to start a business, and life in general... stay tuned for a balance between posts about beer and posts about seasonal eating and connections to where and how food is grown in the region. Hell, maybe I'll even get into canning and pickling. If all goes well, this may even connect to how the ingredients for beer can be produced locally. So, yeah... stay tuned.

Cheers!

A follow-up note on the Coldwater Cru

2011-04-01T15:13:00.001-04:00

Russian River Brewing hosted a crowd of brewers for a symposium on sour and barrel-aged beers last week. I had the pleasure of being there, and we contributed the Coldwater Cru. It was one of a dizzying array of beers offered to a crowd that pushed 250 and spilled between the fermenters and barrel-aging areas. Food was provided by Sean Paxton, the homebrew chef himself. The list of breweries with representatives there was truly stellar, from giants like Garrett Oliver from Brooklyn and the Russian River crew down to a couple of ne'er-do-well startups.

There were good beers — stellar beers — and rare beers. New Glarus was there with some interesting bottles, and Allagash brought a run of their coolship bottles. Cantillon and Brasserie de la Senne were there with some treats not easily found in the states. There were some bad beers — a lesson that even good breweries can make mistakes, and a lesson that not every beer should be soured or aged. In general, though, it was an incredibly educational and inspirational experience.

Our Coldwater Cru fared pretty well. I say pretty well because we discovered inconsistencies in the bottles. Some were progressing better than others. In general, we discovered that the beer was sick, however. And we discovered that this is a good thing. At the shortest version, it meant that the beer hadn't had enough time to convert the various yeasts and bacteria into a finished product. Sick meant that it was still young, and that it was still evolving. It would be one thing to hear this from homebrewers, but we heard it from one of the top voices in Belgian beer — Yvan de Baets, a specialist in sours and ales. He carefully explained that the flavor profile was ideal and outlined what the beer would go through as the "sickness" cleaned up. And he started pouring it for everyone around us and extolling its virtues. This was, shall we say, a very proud moment.

In the end, we headed back to the hotel with a mind-blowing array of names and faces — and a realization that it is possible to drink too much sour beer at one time.

Beer, the stale truth

2011-03-30T16:50:00.004-04:00

Perhaps the most interesting and informative seminar I attended at last week's Craft Brewers Conference was on draft-line management. The basic message came down to this: most of you are drinking beer that doesn't taste as it should. There are a variety of reasons for this, but you can be reasonably assured that the draft beer we're drinking at most bars and restaurants in the States is not being served the way the brewer intended. Whether the beer is too old, under-carbonated, or poured through bad lines, finding a place that will do its best to avoid the problems isn't easy.

Old beer comes in a few varieties. An old IPA will begin to lose its hops. Other beers begin to taste like cardboard or paper. This happens because most beers are made to be tasted fresh, as I've commented on in other posts. Most beers — even the yellow fizzy ones — are a fine-tuned balance of hops and malt. As they age, the balance changes. In most cases, this is not a desirable change, and it often happens because a distributor or retailer has simply held onto a keg or bottles for too long. You can also find the change in bottled beer. Over the past week, I heard more than a few tales of brewery owners who found beer that was past its prime in a store and bought it — just to keep the bottles from changing someone's opinion of the beer. More's the pity that an awful lot of distributors, bars and restaurants may not go to the same trouble.

Under-carbonated beer is an even more common phenomenon. Think of that sports bar where they pour a beer full to the rim of the pint glass. The beer is under-carbonated. I guarantee it. Beer should naturally have a head unless it's a low-carbonated barrel- or bottle-conditioned beer. The primary criminal in these cases is the gas used to pump the beer. Check the row of taps at the sports bar (or wherever you got that beer that had no head and lost what fizz it had) and you'll probably see a stout tap. Stouts are generally poured with a mix of nitrogen and carbon dioxide, producing that low-carbonated, velvety texture you associate with the style. Unfortunately, a lot of bars and restaurants run the same gas through their entire run of taps rather than separating the nitro taps from the CO2 taps. Test a bottled beer against the same beer poured off these taps, and you'll see the difference.

You could perform a comparable test between a bottled beer and one poured off dirty lines. If a bar or restaurant does not clean its draft lines, the lines begin to build up a residue. The residue will begin to add off-flavors like butter, sour or green apple to a beer. Likewise, if the restaurant doesn't cover its taps between closing and opening, bacteria and wild yeasts can collect in the taps and create some pretty funky flavors. This can also cause the infamous foaming taps, the ones you see making bartenders work to pour full beers without a glass full of foam. I recently asked a local pub how often they cleaned their lines. Mind you, this is a place that should know better. The bartender shrugged and said it was maybe every few months. The answer explained every complaint I'd heard about their beer.

To people in the brewing business, this isn't earth-shattering breaking news. My guess is that it remains a dirty little secret that bars and restaurants foist on the rest of us, though. After all, why would they want you to know that their cost-saving measures mean the product you drink isn't what the brewer intended?

Random thoughts

2011-03-30T07:33:00.002-04:00

After two years of living with cats, I have to say that the Monty Python boys were certainly onto something with this one:

The Language of Beer

2011-03-20T00:43:00.002-04:00

The other day, a few of us were sitting outdoors at one of the few sidewalk spots in Carytown. It was a gorgeous Friday afternoon — a little sultry for mid-March, but otherwise the sort of afternoon that brings everyone out to stroll. L and a friend had gotten a bottle of rosé and a cheese plate. I had an Avery DuganA. This particular restaurant is the sort of place where the taps rotate regularly, and the draft and bottle selection is a reliable mix of domestic and international craft beers. They also don’t carry any brands from the Big 3 — and very few of the more common imported beers.Walk in there, and you won’t be able to order a Bud or a Miller Lite. They like it this way, and so do the rest of us craft beer elitists. [Insert a tongue-in-cheek tone.]

Occasionally their decision (a decision shared by a few other places in town) causes a bit of a hiccup in business. I’ve heard people order a Bud or a Miller or what-have-you only to be told that the restaurant doesn’t carry those beers. I have also heard these same customers incredulously question the bartender. Why wouldn’t they? The response varies based on the personality of the bartender and how difficult the customer has been. In general, though, they’re very good about redirecting customers to beers they might like — a pilsner or a kölsch in place of a Bud, for instance.

On this stellar afternoon where I happened to be sitting outdoors rather than at the bar, I heard a waiter take a very different approach. When a customer ordered a Coors Light — a surprise order since he seemed to have been there before — the waiter patiently said they didn’t have Coors Light, but they had a nice light-bodied beer on draft, if he’d like that. The customer said sure, that’d be fine.

I watched as the waiter brought him a North Coast Scrimshaw Pilsner. The man seemed pleased and after a little while ordered another. He also never asked what he was drinking.

My first instinct would have been to tell him what he was drinking. Perhaps he’d want to order it again. Or perhaps he just wanted a beer. A fizzy, yellow beer. And that’s where my instinct to educate him — to geek out about the beer — would have been wrong. Sometimes people just want an uncomplicated beer, uncomplicated by names and hop descriptions and grain bills, and the farther I go into the craft and artisanal beer movement, the more I think the simplicity of just having a beer gets forgotten.

This certainly isn’t the end of the discussion, but I have started to realize that we need a balance in the craft beer world. We need a balance for people who just want a beer — a desert island beer — and a way for them to know that there are more than dark and light varieties without losing them in the intricacies of barrel-aging or food pairing. In a manner, we need to create a broader language that brings even that man at the sidewalk restaurant and the waiter serving him into the fold, without losing the beauty of a cold beer on a hot day.

Cru

2011-03-08T17:48:00.003-05:00

After six or so months of brewing on the Brew-Magic, we have hit a good rhythm, and by and large, we have our process nailed down. It's exciting to see recipes coming together and hear the feedback. What is also exciting is taking the beer we first brewed in the current brewing space and playing with it.

This particular beer is a soured Belgian-style ale. The ABV clocks in just shy of 10%, and it was fermented with both Brett and Saccharomyces (non-brewers should stay tuned for a further explanation of these wild yeasts in another post). The recipe was loosely based on the Abbaye de Bon Saint-Chien BFM and another beer that shall remain un-named. The beer was brewed in September and has rested until now. Three weeks ago, we dosed half of the beer with toasted French oak that had been soaked in Chambourcin from a friend's winery in Loudoun County. The beer's sour character jived beautifully with the oak flavor and the light fruit flavors of the young Chambourcin. The result as we bottled the first couple cases last week was already moving to another level. I'm excited to see what this beer does as it continues to age and what happens when we run it again.

And that, my friends, is our first running of the Grand Cru.

Fun Salad Moment

2011-03-03T21:50:00.003-05:00

Despite some rather temperate weather in Richmond, I've been sticking with flavors and textures that are comforting and winter-like — even salads. A recent addition to the repertoire has been a beet salad with toasted almonds and goat cheese. On their own, all the ingredients are terrific, but put together they sing like a chorus in the groove.

The real star of the show is the almonds, though. I start with a hot, dry pan and add the almonds mixed with some coarse salt, a touch of cumin, and chili. I let them toast for a few minutes over a medium flame and then add a touch of olive oil to coat them. The flame should go down, and the almonds toast until brown. The flavors will meld and provide the perfect complement to the beets, greens, goat cheese and a drizzle of balsamic.

In the end, it will be one of the simplest and best salads you've ever had, almost a meal-like compliment to roast chicken or salumi and cheeses.

On the aging of beer...

2011-02-15T12:38:00.001-05:00

After delivering our second batch of beer a little over a month ago, I realized that some of our friends who have been tasting the different beers were holding on to bottles that were almost four months old — and older now. As we delivered the latest beers, we tasted the last set and discovered that they were starting to lose their character. This is nothing unusual for unfiltered, unpasteurized beers, but the closer I get to the business, the more I learn about what makes things work — and fail. I've heard of brewers tracking down beer on shelves after it's passing its prime, and I'm close to doing that myself.

What happens to the beer? The hops begin to fade, first of all. When hops fade, any flaws in malt character become more obvious. Styles tend to lose their differentiation. Any other flaws in production — infections, unsuccessful malt bills, and more — become glaring. We're not necessarily talking about skunked beer here, just beer that isn't as good as it should be. In general, the beer just goes bad.

When I try to explain this to non-brewers, I get glazed-over looks. I guess we're trained to believe that most things are immutable and will last as long as a processed cheese single. But the truth is that craft beer can be as delicate as good bread, ice cream or vegetables. These things go bad after a while, and so will beer.

Not every beer, though. Non-beer-geeks may know that some of us cellar bottles for months or years. These are beers with yeast that will keep working and ABVs that give them a decent shelf-life. These beers may have been aged in oak casks. They may have had grape must added. They may have interesting additives like honey or herbs with flavors that will evolve over time. In short, these are beers made to age. Think about a young Sauvignon Blanc versus an oak-aged Meritage, and you'll get the idea.

Fresh craft beer isn't made to age, however. Drink it as you get it, and you'll be happier. Oh, and it's beer. Good beer, hopefully.

Brewing, on the road.

2011-02-12T22:28:00.004-05:00

The kid and I hit the road with my business partners yesterday to make a run up to Loudoun County. Our destination was Corcoran Vineyards outside Purcellville. Besides being good friends, the Corcorans have hooked up with a friend in Purcellville to open the first farm winery and brewery in Virginia.

When Jim Corcoran and I got to talking a few weeks ago, he mentioned that Kevin (their brewer) was going to be working on a Sabco Brew-Magic. My ears pricked up, particularly since Jim and I have been talking about my own move toward the business for well over a year now. Why not have them observe one of our brew sessions and have us shadow Kevin on his first brew session, I suggested. After all we've been brewing weekly on a Brew-Magic for more than six months. We could even step Kevin past some of the initial learning curves we discovered.

See, the trick about scaling up one's brewing is that it isn't just about numbers. The difference between a five gallon batch brewed using a DIY mash tun and a kettle on a turkey fryer and running a 12 to 15 gallon batch on a system like the Brew-Magic is night and day. Because the Sabco system is absurdly efficient, a grain bill may not directly scale. More complex grain bills may need to be simplified because you get so much more out of the grain, as well. The real change comes at the level of process. Cleaning processes move to whole new levels — and you go through a lot more soap and sanitizer. But the real process change I've observed is learning to let the system do the work for you. The Brew-Magic will take care of parts of the brewing process that even some production breweries don't have automated. It's a beautiful thing, when you let it do its job.

To that end, the experience on the Brew-Magic has taught all of us — my partners and the Corcoran's new brewer — a lot. And with each brew session, there seems to be another lesson. When (and if) we actually get our plan off the ground, the experience of brewing on this system will have been invaluable. I see this more after watching Kevin work today and realizing how far we've come in the past six months.

************

Above and beyond, however, what about the beer? We tasted Kevin's kolsch and stout. Both were clean and solid. The stout had a nice roast with a fairly light body. The kolsch had a slightly sweeter flavor profile than I usually expect with a kolsch. His APA which we brewed today had a nice hop character and good color coming out of the boil kettle. they should all be nice, sessionable ales.

Ribs, ribs, ribs...

2011-02-10T10:07:00.000-05:00

Last night, I made my first go at doing ribs in the oven. I've been a strict wood-fired guy in the past. Soaked chips, cider drip pan, and all. Last summer, I made my peace with a gas grill. Last night, I made my peace with doing ribs in the convection oven.

The ribs in question were the pork ribs Trader Joe's sells. They aren't ideal since they're not from one of my local producers or butchers, but I tend to trust TJ's products. It was a little under three pounds — perfect for the kid and me and some leftovers. When it came time to prepare them, I mixed up a quick dry rub with flaked sea salt, smoked paprika, sweet paprika, cumin, parsley, cracked pepper, and sugar. I was satisfied with the rub, though I might try brown sugar next time to add a little extra caramelization.

I heated the oven to 300 degrees, applied the rub, and wrapped the ribs in foil. After twenty minutes, I raised the heat to 350, and then to 375 after another half hour. To keep them from drying out, I mixed up a quick mop sauce of cider vinegar, garlic mustard and bourbon. I mopped this on every fifteen minutes after the first half hour. After an hour, I opened the foil to let the skin begin to form on the ribs. Since I was working entirely on improvisation, I waited until it seemed like the ribs had also begun to develop a nice crust. At that point, I mopped on barbecue sauce for the last fifteen minutes.

The result? Stellar. The ribs were tender, and the combination of mop sauce, smoked paprika, and barbecue sauce gave them a good flavor. It wasn't quite as good as a few hours over a wood fire, but sometimes a craving requires improvisation.

Tuesday Tune

2011-02-08T10:05:00.001-05:00

Thanks to my friend Kendra, this is now lurking in my head. Think of it as digital vinyl blasting back from your youth.

Getting my mojo back.

2011-01-30T09:04:00.002-05:00

After a rather up and down, somewhat bizarre few weeks, I'm starting to feel my sea legs under me again. A few rocks have turned over for freelance work, and I'm hoping for a few more this week. I am finally moving toward having a web site to put together my work in one place. And I am starting to put words together again.

On the food front, the prospect of late winter and spring has me thinking about what to make. I've had a lot of cooking errors this year, but there have been more than a few fun successes in the land of soup and Swedish meatballs. This past year has brought me closer than ever to understanding the chemistry and magic behind cooking. It's hard to quantify all that I've learned, but I understand the reactions of ingredients and cookware better than I ever have. (To wit, if you don't own a basic Lodge cast iron skillet, get one now and use it regularly.) With a little better time management, I even hope to begin writing more about the cooking adventures — particularly since it looks like our budget crunch will keep us eating at home even more than before.

On the beer front, there is much, much to think about for the coming months. Our weekly brewing rhythm has meant a good pattern of beers coming off. Our early issues with fermentation control and infection have been solved. We'll be helping some friends get up and running on their Brew-Magic and look forward to some good collaboration possibilities. Stay tuned for further details, and perhaps even an account of writing a viable business plan.

And in honor of winter and fun, there's always this...

Ch-ch-changes

2011-01-15T22:12:00.002-05:00

As it turns out, the Stillwater Ales beers I'd considered using against the cassoulet course for the beer dinner weren't available in time. Why? One hadn't received Virginia ABC label approval (and I didn't realize I had a close enough connection to the ABC board to help the process), and the other hadn't made it on the truck for the week's shipment.

This left me in a bit of a quandary since I'd pinned the dinner around regional beers and needed something rich that could stand up to the chef's plan for the cassoulet. For a while I looked through a wide portfolio of other options, but availability or packaging (we could use bottles, but not a keg) nixed a bunch of options. For a several days, I tried to find a good alternative without turning to another Blue Mountain Brewing beer. In the end, though, their Evil 8 won out. It had just been released (a plus), and as a good, clean dubbel it would make a nice companion for a rich, rustic dish like the cassoulet.

I look forward to the day soon when Virginia has as rich and vital a brewing community as nearby states.

Cheers!

Going public

2011-01-06T15:45:00.003-05:00

So there is a very big change happening in my life in the next two days... I will be leaving my current company. The end-result of this is yet to be seen, but the short-term plans include helping out some friends with art direction, design and copy freelance work (both web and print) and pushing at a business plan. At the same time, I will be looking at full-time jobs in the vein I've been in for years now, but the business plan is an important side note. The goal I and a couple partners have is to take the upsized homebrewing project legit and open a new brewery in Richmond in the next year.

To that end, I've got a fun little project set up for next week: a beer dinner on Sunday, January 16 at Ipanema.

When I was originally approached about it, I was excited to do it, but then I'll admit I was a little nervous. After all, I'm veggie-friendly but also a committed omnivore. What kinds of beers would not only pair with an interesting vegetarian winter menu but would also be distinctive enough to set the dinner apart from similar events in town. In the end, I opted to stay local with the beer choices, and the menu turned out to be this:

Course 1
Winter vegetable terrine, roasted mushroom pâté, and local cheeses
Foggy Ridge First Fruit Cider — This dry cider from Floyd, VA, with a touch of fruitiness will pair nicely with the local cheeses and rich terrine and pâté.

Course 2
Welsh rarebit with honey roasted radishes and walnuts
Tupper’s Keller Pils — While the first inkling was to go with a brown ale here, the dry taste of the pils should provide a nice contrast for the richness of the rarebit.

Course 3
Root vegetable cassoulet with black-eyed peas and winter greens
Stillwater Existent or Cellar Door — Existent is a deliciously hoppy black IPA fermented with a Belgian yeast, and Cellar Door is a classic saison flavored with a touch of white sage. There's an either/or here based on label approval for the Existent (VA ABC!).

Course 4
Churros with spiced chocolate, Orange/vanilla flan
Blue Mountain Dark Hollow — This is our coup of the evening. The Dark Hollow is traditionally only sold at the brewery, but the kind brewers at Blue Mountain have agreed to release a case for this event.

Kudos to Will at Ipanema for a terrific menu. More details and tickets here, if you're interested in joining us.

a new year, and a thousand things

2011-01-03T15:42:00.003-05:00

It's fair to say that a thousand things have been keeping me from the blog and from writing. The pity is that this place has always been a good outlet, as well as a great communication tool. Perhaps that is to say that I haven't had a chance to vent and think through so many of the things that have been going on and put them in context — from food to beer to parenting to travel and life in general.

The last year crashed to a close with a car accident ($8K worth of damage to the Sportwagen, thanks to the woman who rear-ended the guy behind me), news of major changes in the professional arena, lots of lessons about beer and brewing and partnerships, lessons about homeownership, lessons about love and relationships and family, lessons about cooking and wine and life, and a healthy respect for the communities we carry with us and the power of an 8-year old to make you think differently about the world. The new year promises a start with lots of changes and lots of new things to consider and perhaps even old lessons to learn. As a friend put it last night, sometimes we don't see the writing on the walls, and it takes a cosmic slap in the face to realize what you're being told.

Two thousand and ten wasn't all bad by any means. In fact, it was quite good and wonderful at many moments, from Italy to Maine to some of the pieces of daily life. On balance, I'd even call it a pretty good year — a pretty good year with a lot to teach me. And now it's time to put some of that in motion.

I realize that I'm being vague here, but it's on purpose. I'll get to more detail as time permits and life necessitates. In the meantime, here are a few things to chew on:

Never underestimate the comfort of a well-made frittata.

Immersion blenders are wonderful tools, necessary even, but a good knife or two and a good cast-iron skillet will make your kitchen sing.

Listen to the people around you. They love you and deserve to be heard.

Simpler is better, from the ingredients in cooking to the grains in beer to the things that make us happy. Always use good ingredients, and only use as many as you actually need.

Never forget to be creative. Or patient.

Some beers and some meals can never be fixed.

Kids keep growing up.

A good beer logo does not require hop cones.

And there you have it. A little list to begin 2011. Cheers!

Losing my mojo

2010-11-15T22:01:00.002-05:00

I haven't really lost my mojo, but I have struggled with cooking in recent months. For a while, I blamed this on the stove at the house we bought in late May. It was newer, better, and more powerful than anything I'd used before. Easy blame, right? Same with the grill. The chimney brought my cherished hardwood charcoal to a hotter fire sooner. But the truth is I'm just off my game.

When I pay attention as I did this evening, things come out brilliantly. A little late perhaps, but still good. Tonight's menu was simply chicken thighs and legs pan roasted with rice and steamed veggies. Seasoning on the chicken was simple — coarse-ground salt and pepper, parsley, and a touch of spanish paprika, squeeze of lemon. I used the cast-iron skillet and put a little butter in until it browned, added the chicken and sauteed until there was a nice brown crust on the skin. I turned it over and cooked the underside for a few minutes before transferring the skillet to a 375F oven.

Thirty minutes (and a Troeg's Scratch #34 Saison de Meuze) later, I had rice and steamed veggies ready to go, and the chicken had cooked to a beautiful, perfect, brown crackling skin. It was perfect, until the kid got halfway through and said she didn't really like the chicken very much. I was ready to start my rant of "you used to like this more than anything else" until I glanced over and realized the circles had crept in under her eyes.

In my effort to get my cooking mojo back (a success), I failed in my effort to feed the kid before tired set in. The thing is the creeping exhaustion is hard to predict. Some nights she can hold out until 8:30. Not last night.

I've spent a lot of time lately trying to find balance between everything I'm trying to do and being a dad and a partner to my fiancée. It's not always the easiest balance to achieve, and it takes a lot of mojo. Apparently, I need to work a little harder at it still.

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The beer geek in me, however, wants to report that a Lake Placid UBU Ale matched nicely against the chicken, with its touch of smoke and lemon. It wasn't quite as successful a pairing as the L'Olmaia unfiltered wheat beer I tried several weeks ago, but a credible pairing nonetheless.

coming back, the nostalgia edition

2010-11-13T10:26:00.002-05:00

I will be doing my best to revive this project amidst brewing, getting the house in order, parenting and the rest of life. In fact, I may just have to make it the Impolitic Project blog since the new house, the brewing venture, cooking, parenting, and more are all projects in their own right. In the meantime, food, beer, random thoughts, and perhaps even Friday Fun a day late...

Yes, I was a Billy Joel fan once upon a time, and this was always one of my favorites.

And this one too.

And going way back to the beginning of his career.

Logo love

2010-11-09T09:59:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about logos recently. For all intents and purposes, we will be phasing out the original name and logo for the little homebrewing project as we look toward the future. There were two reasons behind this: first, it was too reminiscent of other business names in the state, and second, the logo was too reminiscent of a few others.

Having put them away, though, I've started thinking about logos for breweries. It seems like there are a few basics. You have the crest; you have the logo with hop cones; you have the brewing equipment illustration. To be honest, I'm a little bored with all three, and judging from the identities I've seen on recently opened breweries, so are others. And with good reason...

A crest? If you have a family crest, great. Use it. It's a nod to history and tradition. If you don't have a crest, why create one? What do you gain by trying to reference a brewing tradition that isn't actually your own? Be new. Find a new path.

Hop flowers? Grain sheafs? I think we all know that hops and grains are the integral parts of beer. See the first point. You're not adding anything new to the visual landscape by using one more hop cone. Find another visual.

Equipment? Sure, I like a pretty copper kettle as much as any beer person. Do I care whether your brewhouse is a copper kettle? Maybe, but it certainly won't make me think "Hey, I want to buy their beer!"

In the end, I'm a fan of simple and clean. I like classic looks and type treatments that are appropriate to the image you're creating. If there's a local connection, even better. Use it, but don't force it. Ultimately, it's all just a paper tiger, though. People buy the beer, not the logo. They will seek out a good product because it's good; a good identity is the head on the pint.

That said, will I obsess over this as we start moving closer to business ideas? Probably. You can make me drink my words when I greenlight the first logo that uses a woodcut hop cone.

Slipping

2010-10-15T23:19:00.005-04:00

A fellow foodie recently raised the question of how to approach a restaurant you love to let them know they're slipping. The brief conversation jogged something I've thought about a lot in the past and wanted to tackle here. What is that intangible moment when you recognize — and finally note — that one of your favorites has gone off its game? At what point, do you realize it's not just an off-night or two but a real slip in quality?

When your favorite neighborhood joint messes up too many meals or loses the servers who helped give it a bit of extra charm, do you say something? Or do you just stop going? Become that regular who no longer eats there every Thursday? What responsibility do we have as customers — and sometimes friends — to let a place know that it is off its game?

A few years ago, the kid and I had a regular meal at one of the Richmond Fan favorites. Many weeks, we'd be there twice. The servers knew us; we were treated well. Then the quality started to slip a little bit. A couple of our favorite servers left; some orders came out wrong; the quality of ingredients seemed to go off a bit. Ultimately, though, it was managerial indifference, a shrug when a server added a tip to my card when I'd left cash for a tip, that got us to stop going to the place.

As a loyal person, I recognize our willingness to put up with some of the mistakes was a direct result of my love for the restaurant. The managerial shrug — and a fiver handed back to me — put us off for months, until the kid wanted to go back one day and we got word that one of our favorite servers had been looking for us. And the food? It was just okay, and I realized that I'd been lulled into accepting what was at best middling food made with fair ingredients for years. When I could have taken my business elsewhere, I kept going because it was just easy and it was what we expected.

The place in question is busy enough that the loss of our business probably didn't hurt them. Likewise, they do enough business that my complaint about quality would probably have fallen on ears made deaf by the ring of the cash register. That said, there have been moments when I've been willing to step up — commenting on a change in the quality of bread made by one of our local shining stars, mentioning a side dish that is clearly overdone from a kitchen that knows better — and in most cases, the comments were greeted with thanks.

The truth is that the Richmond dining scene is big enough that restaurants should guard against resting on their laurels. But because it is also a dining scene in which a few luminaries carry a lot of weight, many customers put up with more paint-by-numbers food than they should.

Keeping that in mind, I would push everyone who loves food and who develops relationships with restaurants to let joints know when they're off their game. Even if it's a matter of asking questions about why something seems different, resist the urge to be obnoxious, but let the chef or server know if something isn't as good as it was before.

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UPDATE: Guess I should add that I have specifically avoided naming names. There are a number of places that I've simply stopped going to because they've either decided to rest on their laurels or haven't kept up their game as new competition has hit the streets. Feel free to name names in the comments, however.

Welcoming Fall

2010-10-05T15:29:00.003-04:00

This weekend, we needed to use up our CSA share. With nearly fifty bucks left, we binged on a bushel of heirloom variety apples and whatever veggies were still left at the market. (Word to the wise: sleeping in feels good when you don't have the kid but works against getting the best Saturday market variety.) Among the things I picked up was a bag of small to medium sweet potatoes. I've never been a huge fan of sweet potatoes — the Yankee in me comes out sometimes — but I've been trying to expand my cooking horizons this year.

Richmond was finally graced with real fall weather this week. Last week's rains brought a change in the air, and we've been downright chilly at night. On my way to pick up the kid at her mom's class, I decided it was time to welcome fall properly and how better to do that than with soup — Sweet Potato Bisque. And lamb chops.

The kid has apparently lost her taste for sweet potatoes; she would have pesto pasta, the standby. Since she'd finished her homework, I drafted her help. She helped me put together the stock from TJ's concentrate and hot water. She rinsed the apple and the sweet potatoes, peeled the garlic, and added the apples and sweet potatoes to the sweated onions and garlic, stirring all the time. I did the chopping, and she helped with adding the spices as well. Next time, I will be sure to get pictures to have the events recorded for posterity. In the end, it was too bad that she didn't want to try the soup, but truth be told I was glad to be able to up the heat factor to balance out the sweet potatoes and apple.

The sides were pan-seared lamb chops simply dusted with coarse salt and pepper, a cucumber and pepper salad, and a couscous/lentil mix for L. Serve it with a red wine dry enough to counter the sweetness and full enough to stand up to the spice, or better yet get a nice saison to complement the flavors. In any case, here's the improvised recipe...

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Keep in mind that this is all based on improvisation. It's largely a bisque because of consistency, and I opted for bourbon because we were out of sherry. With a good bourbon, it worked nicely.

Ingredients:
1/2 stick butter
1 small onion
4 cloves garlic
1 apple
6 small to medium sweet potatoes
5 cups vegetable broth
1 roasted poblano pepper
Spices: cumin, fennel seeds, salt, pepper, fresh ginger, sweet and hot paprika, and saffron
Bourbon (approximately 1/2 cup)
Plain yogurt

Preparation:
1. Dice apples and sweet potatoes into 1 inch or smaller pieces
2. Chop onion and garlic coarsely.
3. Heat butter in large stock pot on medium heat and add onion and garlic. When sweated to shimmering, add the apple and a few mills of salt and pepper. Allow to sweat for five minutes and begin to add sweet potatoes. Add a dash of each spice and sweat a few minutes until the mixture becomes aromatic.
4. Add 4 cups of vegetable broth.
5. Bring mixture to boil for five minutes and reduce to simmer for 25 minutes or until the potatoes and apples are soft and break up easily.
6. Use immersion blender to puree mixture. Add additional stock and bourbon while blending. If you want a thinner soup, add extra stock.
7. Bring to boil again and drop to simmer for as long as needed.
8. Taste and add spice to balance. Should have a good bite that gives way to the sweet flavors and saffron mid-palate.
9. Serve with a dollop of plain yogurt, a pinch of fleur de sel and a rosemary sprig.

Will serve at least six.

The little things...

2010-10-04T14:37:00.002-04:00

I can't stop watching this video. I don't know if it's because I know how much I've been through and how possible it was a couple of times for me to end up holding every small thing together by the smallest thread or if it's because I like the damn song so much. Regardless, this video really hits a spot in my throat.

A note about small plates, and restaurants in general.

2010-09-28T22:48:00.003-04:00

A friend recently posted on his blog about a favorite spot of mine, Secco. I've noted to others that Secco isn't my go-to joint for a meal because putting a full dinner together can sometimes cost more than L and I have as discretionary funds. Why? Because, as people have noted before, the plates are small.

An omnivore like me may be able to put together a fine meal for under $30 — duck or steak, a salad, soup plus the schiacciata, for instance. There's enough balance and richness to satisfy my palate and leave me feeling satisfied. A pickier eater may find it difficult, though. Vegetarians will find some very tasty items, but at least in our visits, L hasn't found the plates satisfying enough. As a result, we're more likely to enjoy one of the best cheese and charcuterie plates in town, drink some excellent wines, and finish the meal at home.

A few times recently, Secco seems to have become a straw man for what some Richmond diners see as the problem with small plates in general. They are — well — small. What a surprise, right? The point of tapas or shared delicacies is that you enjoy a variety of tastes. It's possible to put a full meal together, but you have to strip away expectations of each person getting an appetizer, entree, and dessert. Regardless, the problem with many small plate restaurants is that they often aren't adventurous enough. Too often, small plates simply seem like easy ways for restaurants to maximize profit and minimize care for preparation. This is where Secco beats the curve.

My standard for a good restaurant — no matter the cuisine, style, or cost — is whether it provides me with meals I can't produce myself. Whether it's because of better equipment, ingredients or the elusive techniques of proper preparation, I don't care. If I have been served something transporting that I could not produce as well myself (or find better elsewhere), the restaurant gets my kudos. Mas Tapas in Charlottesville fits the bill. So does Catina, a local banh mi joint. Numerous falafel joints in New York that leave me longing for the right crunch, not to mention a couple steak joints in the city that simply produce a better filet than I can duplicate, are on the list. I could go on, but the point is Secco has landed on that list faster than other places in town. What the chef is producing is worth tasting and savoring. I haven't sampled anything yet that didn't make me smile.

L and I may not eat there as often as I'd like, but that has more to do with life in general than it does a quality-to-price ratio. Ultimately, I wish there were more restaurants that delivered the way Secco does.

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In the interest of full disclosure, I am friends with the owner and staff of Secco. But that's only a small part of why I am proud to say they've hit the mark so well. Richmond needed a place like this.

Recent beer discoveries

2010-09-14T22:03:00.004-04:00

Just a quick list with some thoughts...

Shooting Creek Farm Brewery — Brown, Red, Bitter, Amber
These guys just made it up to Richmond from the far corner of southwest Virginia. The beers are all unfiltered and hand-bottled at this point, and the craft shows in good and bad ways. There are some characteristics reminiscent of homebrew, and while the use of rye in the red and other alternative grains produces some interesting flavor profiles, only the brown really stood out to me. It had a nice, dry hoppiness and seemed a little more finished than the others. All in all, though, they've got a good start, and it will be interesting to see how they evolve.

Oerbier from De Dolle Brouwers, Belgium
Apparently, this beer is produced in 5 gallon batches and blended and aged. The result is a crazy complexity of flavor with oak, funk, caramel, malt, low bitterness, sour, like nine beers combined into one explosion of flavor. It was a random find at Kybecca, a small store with a fascinating selection in Fredericksburg, and I may have to seek out another bottle or two and see what some additional age does to the flavor profile.

Dieu du Ciel Rosée d'Hibiscus
Wheat beer brewed with hibiscus from a tiny brewery in Quebec. It is a beer for committed wine drinkers — delicate and dry like a perfect rosé.

Ommegang Zuur
A sour brown ale brewed with cherries. My beer guru An says this one is a little young. I'd have to agree. Nice sour notes, and a solid cherry presence — think cider, not maraschino. It made a nice afternoon quaff for my dad's birthday, but could really evolve with a little more time in the bottle.

When I get a chance, I'll do a rundown of some of this year's Octoberfests.

Things I've learned

2010-09-03T15:19:00.003-04:00

I was pondering a post this morning and realized that the past year had brought an awful lot of lessons along the way. What follows is an utterly un-premeditated list of things I've finally begun to understand in the past year.

When sauteing or grilling, leave fish or meat on a higher heat than you think for a little longer than you think. The trick is to get a good crust on the outside without burning. Very handy skill...
Brewing has a lot more to do with equipment and process than inspiration. The 90/10 rule for writing and design also applies here.
Listen to your kid and enjoy every day. They grow up quickly.
Say thank you and do small, nice things for people close to you.
Make time for yourself and those you love.
Let go. If it's bothering you and you can't do anything about it or change what is bother you, find a way to let it go.
Don't wait to transplant tomatoes or black raspberries. The plants will falter, especially in a bad growing year.
Tomato sauce is easier to make than you think.
Big California-style reds get boring after a while. The same is true of the hyper-experimental trend in craft beer. A classic done well or given a new twist is better than something that beats you over the head with its idiosyncrasies.
I'd rather cook than pay for a mediocre meal at a restaurant.
It is easy to forget to slow down. And easy to forget that kids (and adults!) need some time just to hang out.
Sharpen your knives regularly. They will perform better and your food will be better.

Stuzzi — Adding salt to the mix.

2010-08-24T12:26:00.002-04:00

After one of my fellow food bloggers exposed some questionable management techniques at Stuzzi, I was determined that we wouldn't try it. The place had gotten enough negative press from fellow foodies for mediocre pies, poor climate control, an inexperienced staff, and a bloviating owner that we had steered clear already. Still, the place also had enough buzz that I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Fast-forward to this past Sunday when a friend suggested it for dinner. The kid had headed off for the night with her mom, and I hadn't planned ahead for dinner so we had a "why not" moment.

When we arrived, there were people spilling out the door. Even on a Sunday night, the place was buzzing. And when I say buzzing, I mean it. The room is loud. Very loud and about as much a contrast from its former life as one can imagine. The rounded cutouts behind the bar with their glass shelves and rotating lights look like a "hip" restaurant designers dream from New York in the late eighties.

Our friend was waiting at the bar, drinking a decent, but too warm chianti out of a big juice glass. She'd already put our names in, and L and I looked over the wine list while the bartender buzzed about. Before we had a chance to order, though, the hostess told us our table was ready. Points for timing since L was hungry. This same, poor hostess seemed befuddled, however, when we decided to wait for our friend to pay her tab. She insisted she could just seat us, but we asked to wait a moment. Watching her intermittently over the course of the evening, it was clear she was inexperienced and looked scared.

In any case, once we were at our table, the waiter came for our drink order. The wine list was fairly basic, with wines named by grape and/or blend rather than producer. Nonetheless, the prices hovered in the low twenties for the basic chiantis and montepulcianos. When I asked the waiter to tell me about a nero and a super Tuscan, however, he admitted he knew nothing about the wines on the list. "French wine's really my thing," he added. It was a baffling comment — especially in a restaurant that purports to give you a "real" Italian experience. We punted and opted for the inexpensive montepulciano. Better to pay less for something made for quick drinking than spend the extra bucks on a good wine served at the wrong temperature.

The menu covers the gamut of expected apps and neapolitan pies. There were a few small surprises like ember-roasted eggplant and a vongole pie, but overall I felt like I could have predicted almost everything on the menu. The pastas were the only exception — a few interesting preparations — but we were here for the pizza. Ordering, we settled on the calamari fritti over the caprese and opted for a wild mushroom pie and a neapolitan pie.

Our neighbor's food came out, and considering how close the tables are, it's easy to watch what everyone else eats. Our first thought was relief for not ordering the caprese — who fries mozzarella? It just seemed wrong. The plate of calamari was flavorful but the portion was a third the size of the calamari we'd ordered at another restaurant two nights before. For the same price.

But what of the pizzas? The pizzas that the menu glorifies to high heaven. The pizzas that are supposedly certified by a governing body. The pizzas that come out of a monstrous, red-tiled woodfired oven.

Meh. They're okay. Just okay.

The wild mushroom pie came with a half-pound of arugula dumped on the pie and drizzled with balsamic, a pizza salad if you will. When I had a pie with rocket in Italy, the arugula covered the pie, but I didn't have to separate salad and pie just to eat the damn thing. Anyway, the women agreed the taste was okay, if a bit bland. My neapolitan pie had a puffy crust, but none of the crispness you hope for from the woodfired oven. Beyond that, there were four basil leaves and four anchovies decorating what was basically a margherita pie. The parmaggiano promise by the menu was nowhere to be found either. The crust had the bland watery flavor I knew to expect, but there was something missing. Something only brought back by a morsel or two of anchovy: salt.

After hearing so much about the joint, I half expected the owner to come tell us we were eating the "real thing." He was present in the dining room and boisterous with the people he knew. In the end, I ate most of the pie wishing that a touch more of the owner's grandstanding had gone into the actual care and preparation of the food.

The final tab hovered in the mid-fifties, and we tipped the minimum. With inexperienced service and mediocre food, even reasonable prices won't pull us back in there any time soon.

filling in the blanks

2010-08-21T23:32:00.003-04:00

So what's been going on in the Impolitic world? Continuing with lots of travel and change. To wit....

The annual Maine trip came and went. Our food adventures on it ran the gamut from a classic crab roll and fried scallop roll for L at Beal's in Southwest Harbor to a fine meal at Seasons in Stonington (good food, fair service, and I'm still debating whether it's worthy of a blog post), shedder lobsters ripped apart at the house, the annual mussels (amazing as always) at the Isleford Dock on Little Cranberry, and two fine lunches at Gritty McDuff's.

On the subject of beer, however, I'm a bit confused about Atlantic Brewing Company. They have taken on the brands and recipes from the old Bar Harbor Brewing Company — a crazy little basement operation that made fine, fine beers — and they've expanded their capacity. What I don't get is that they're clearly running two different bottling lines. Some of the beers come labeled as being produced in Portland with twist-off caps, and some are standard, unthreaded bottles. When I asked if everything was produced on Mount Desert, however, I was told it is. Could Atlantic be contract brewing and lying about it? Enquiring minds want to know...

**************

The house continues to unfold. Best example that we haven't fully settled yet (from the Impolitic point of view)? My grill still isn't here and set up. Sad, isn't it?

L's list is longer. Suffice it to say that we have some work to do.

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The kid starts third grade in two weeks. My mind is mildly blown by this. She has decidedly turned into a real kid recently, and this is a great thing. The reality is though that I have no idea where the time has gone. The result lately is that I have tried to remind myself that it is very, very important to spend as much time with her as I can.

She's going through a lot, this kid. L and I consolidated houses, which brought one level of transition. Now, her mom is getting married in just over a week, a fact that has the kid more upset than I realized. Some friends have come; some have gone; either way, this summer has had far less play time and friend time than I would have wished for months ago. And with it all happening, her genetic stoicism means she talks about this stuff less than she probably should — a tendency I plan to run interference on as the fall gets going.

**************

Brewing is brewing. We have finally acquired the new brewing system and run several batches. Sadly, a couple have had to be pitched. My partners and I have also spent a great deal of time learning what it means to scale up from running five gallons on a propane burner to using the nano equivalent of true brewery equipment. This weekend, however, we began demolition and reconstruction on a new brewing space.

This means we will be able to bring our friends in to begin brewing and tasting some of the new beers very, very soon. I am excited — and exhausted.

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What this summer has most lacked has been cooking. We've been doing the market as usual, but it feels like I haven't really taken the time to make as many great meals as I'd like. Highlights have included some very nice fresh pasta from the South of the James Market at Forest Hill tossed with homemade pomodoro sauce. We have also been able to source some fat, delicious sea scallops at the market, and I've finally learned how to sear scallops properly. Very tasty. Lastly, I think I finally learned the art of a perfectly grilled steak. It only took how many years?

*************

I guess the point is there's been a lot on tap. We've been very busy with life in general, but I'm making a conscious effort to slow things down and get back to the things I enjoy — time with the kid, time with L, cooking, working with my brewing partners, doing some writing, and maybe making a few minutes here and there for pool. I need to do that.

So what's happening in the Impolitic Eye world? Lots.

2010-08-01T23:51:00.003-04:00

I just skimmed over my list of recent posts and realized that I've really slowed down on the blogging. You can blame the lapses on a variety of things. Among them have been a move to a new house, an engagement to the semi-anonymous L, the end of Buttercup's second-grade year, an effort to juggle a side-hobby of brewing with my love of cooking and restaurant-going, and probably a few other things I've forgotten.

Tonight was a prime example of how things go. We have a well-stocked fridge and pantry and will be leaving on vacation in a few days. Still, the kid came home from her mom's and was in exhausted mode. I am beginning to learn when to note the tired eyes and follow that lead rather than thinking we can "tough" past it. Maybe in a few months or a year her patterns will change again, but for now, tired kid means get some food and take it easy. We did so, wrapping up some cleaning from a productive visit by L's parents, and relaxing with the beginning of another occasional chianti comparison.

After a bit, I was thinking about the frittata I was planning to cook. I'd sweat the celery, peppers and carrots from Victory Farms, the local garlic, add some parsley, goat cheese and eggs. On half of it, I'd sprinkle some prosciutto. But I realized I was tired and in little mood to cook. Prepping food can be an outlet for me, and it can be part of life's delicate balancing act. It is also a good barometer that life is in reasonable balance. Lately, I feel like I'm still reaching for that balance.

On the other hand, even a foodie and chef-wannabe like me just wants a bacon cheeseburger. That was tonight. The kid had a snack (yogurt and granola and some sungold tomatoes) and watched a bit of TV. L and I had a breather. Then we trotted over a couple blocks to one of our local burger joints — Carytown Burger and Fries. Burgers and drinks ran $23 and change. Not bad for a decent, quick meal. My healthiest moment? No, but sometimes you just have to do what you need to do. When the kid got halfway through her kid's burger and apologized for not being so hungry, I looked at her and said, "I'll trade you eating part of that for your good mood any day."

Ultimately, that's what it came down to for me — having a good moment sometimes trumps the things we think we should be doing.

Cafe Rustica Redux

2010-07-30T23:55:00.003-04:00

As anyone who has read my notes on Richmond restaurants knows, Andy Howell's Café Rustica is among my favorite spots in the city. Compared to most restaurants of comparable pedigree, Rustica churns out consistently excellent food for better prices. I have yet to have a bad meal at the joint, even on what I would call at the time one of their "off" nights.

Tonight was decidedly not an "off" night. In fact, with a new menu debuting in the past two weeks, the kitchen seems to be revived and putting more energy into the food. (Mind you, there was no lack of energy before.) The mix of locally-sourced, reasonably-priced Continental comfort food is well-intact. From the pomodoro pie to the steak to the mediterranean short stack to the pot roast, everything that came to the table was well-prepared and delicious. Even the beet salad seemed to have gained a little extra microgreens and a little extra zing on the roasted walnuts. My only regret? That Howell took the Portuguese stew off the menu before I tried it.

The tab with a bottle of '07 Chinon Cab Franc and a glass of Rueda for L's mother? $127. With tax and tip. That's for four of us, and we all walked away sated and stuffed, wishing we had a little more room for the peanut-butter-and-jelly creme brulée or blueberry mascarpone. But back to the price: $127, after tax and a good tip. It's tough to find comparable food at that price anywhere in the city. And with a front-of-house staff that makes the place feel like home, there's little wonder it has become our go-to place.

Next step, testing the place on the kid. Then again maybe we'll keep it as a date-night secret.

Writing about Beer

2010-07-20T14:02:00.002-04:00

You wouldn't think the above words would give me pause, but they are. I've been asked to write up a quick (200 word) primer on craft beer for the second edition of a friend's book. What we have in mind is something that covers the basics but also gives enough to go on that the discerning reader — who isn't already up on craft beer — will know which way to go and what he is tasting and finding.

Style is admittedly giving me a little trouble. My friend's writing is a little more on the savvy magazine edge than my usual prose, but I can live with that. I'm rusty but not so rusty I can't find the right tone. No. What's getting me is the style of presentation. Is it better to give a quick list — a sort of best-of of the craft beer world that will give any reader the right place to start? Or is it better to give a run-down of styles and terms to know? Or is it better to pull together some nice clear prose that takes a more narrative approach?

It feels odd to be stuck on my first writing assignment in years. It feels even stranger to be stuck when it comes to a subject I know so much about. So here goes a bit of crowdsourcing... If you were looking for a quick primer on what it means when someone says "craft beer," would you rather have a list of styles, a list of go-to beers, or some fuller prose to chew on?

I'd love to hear suggestions in the comments.

Burned, thrice.

2010-07-13T23:25:00.002-04:00

I consider myself a good cook. I know my way around the kitchen, around ingredients, around different preparations. It's a hobby that has gotten more and more serious in the past few years — maybe filling a void left by not playing pool lately. Friends and family enjoy what I cook, and I can usually take an eclectic set of ingredients from idea to execution handily. From time to time, though, there are reminders that I'm just an amateur. Tonight, I made a couple of such mistakes.

The plan was to prepare some sockeye filets we'd picked up TJ's with quinoa and a salad. No big deal, right. Easy. Prep the salmon and give it a quick sear on the stove before putting it under the broiler to get the top. Chop up some veggies for a little slaw to go on it. Add some veggies to the quinoa. Salad. Simple stuff.

The thing is the fish wasn't great. I knew that the moment I took it out of the package. Usually TJ's fish has been pretty consistent, but the last couple times the quality seems to have dropped off a little bit. This salmon was a little beaten up and might have seen a bit of freezer burn, but I didn't have a back-up plan. It was getting late, too. Time to pull some cumin and lemon to the rescue. If I couldn't grab a better piece of fish, maybe I could at least cover up the imperfections. I prepped it and moved on.

The garnish was going to be a bit of cucumber, some sungolds, parsley and a bit of pepper. For the pepper, I opted for a bright yellow hot pepper I'd picked up at the market. It seemed fairly innocuous, and I made sure to prep it correctly — slice open and remove the seeds with a quick wash, dice. I even cleaned my knife and hands afterward to prevent cross-contamination.

The quinoa had a good start on the stove. I salted it liberally and added diced some yellow squash and green pepper a friend had given L. I tossed it in the pan to cook with the grains. Seemed like a fine idea at the time.

Before pulling the salad together, I shoved the salmon under the broiler. I love cast iron for its versatility, and for the ability to get a perfect sear on almost anything. I pulled some greens from the bag and mixed them with the rest of the parsley and a red pepper that had landed on our counter this afternoon. Crumble some stilton over it, add a little balsamic, and we're all good, right?

It was just a couple minutes later that the burn started. My lips were the first hit, then my eyes. Then I realized I'd forgotten one very important detail — the cutting board. I'd washed everything but the cutting board. And now everything was covered in sweet, hot pepper. The salad was, if not ruined, at least the wrong set of flavors. The quinoa had an extra bite to it. My eyes were burning, and to add final insult to injury, I left the salmon under the broiler too long.

The last was the least of my problems since the salmon was already a bit of a flavor and texture fail. The mistake with the peppers bugs me though. It seems like the kind of mistake you shouldn't make if you consider yourself a serious-enough cook.

The truth is that life is filled with those moments, however: little lessons that teach you to always be vigilant, no matter how much you think you know.

Italy — the first installment

2010-05-21T16:00:00.007-04:00

To say that we had a good time in Italy would be an understatement of phenomenal proportions. To say that a week in Italy altered my view of food and wine — and how we treat them in the States — would also be an understatement.

We arrived in Munich, tired and bleary-eyed and had a first taste of what the next week would be like. The cafés all offered beautiful breakfast options, replete with the sound of freshly-pulled espressos. At the café in the regional terminal, the languages were a blend of German, Italian, and English. After a coffee and a couple of snacks, I wanted a beer. It was a crisp Hofbrau, and came in the appropriate glass — better yet, it was a perfect 10 ounces, rather than the over-sized, expensive beers served in U.S. airports. On the Lufthansa flight, we were greeted with smiles, a refreshing change from the surly attendants on the U.S. Airways flight from Philly to Munich. We were also soon given sandwiches (salami for me, cheese for L), sparkling wine, and beer. And the flight attendants were polite and in good humor all the way through.

We were tired but happy so far, and it was the perfect segue to our arrival in Florence. From the moment we landed, it seemed to be a place that sped up with the express purpose of slowing down. People rushed to long meals. Cars sped down alleys to take coffee breaks. It's as though everything came with a pause — a moment for coffee and vin santo, a stop for wine, a quick grappa and conversation, a bit of bruschetta, gelato — and every pause came with food and drink.

I'll have more to say in future posts, but that's a beginning. (And for the record, I needed a beginning to remind me that I'm supposed to be writing on this damn thing.) Salute!

Pizza night, the small version

2010-04-30T09:37:00.004-04:00

So we were lucky enough to be connected in with a monthly pizza circle in Richmond recently, and I had the chance to see some truly creative work happening with the pies. Though there were no other kids around, it proved a delightfully kid-friendly event for Buttercup, too. Good times.

Fast-forward a few days to Thursday, a night we'd sworn to go swimming after missing the past few days. Pool night means a good bit of relaxation, but it also means eating later than usual. (We've tried going to Mekong after swimming a couple times, and while it is delicious, the night can sometimes be a bit too indulgent.) In any case, we've lately come to three parameters for dinners: 1. Get dinner ready so we can eat together; 2. Eat before the kid gets too tired and/or cranky; 3. Use what we have so we do a better job of staying within the budget.

L suggested pizza. She could thaw the TJ's dough in the freezer. At ninety-nine cents a pop, Trader Joe's fresh dough is a lifesaver — high quality and easy to use. To make life for later even easier, she divided the dough into two smaller pies and pre-baked the crust.

We got back from swimming just after 8 p.m. and raided the fridge. The kid wanted pepperoni and olives. A good quality salumi was a good pepperoni substitute. Add marinara, some grated mozzarella, some feta and a few kalamata olives, and the kid's pie was ready to go. Ten minutes in the oven, and it was finished. Ours was more of a hodge-podge: the last of the artichokes and roasted peppers, some leftover fresh sage, marinara, blue cheese and mozzarella, olives, and some crushed chili. And this is what the hodge-podge looked like:

Delicious. Cheap. And it was all a matter of what we had in the fridge. What a perfect cheapicurean moment.

Italy on a dream (and a budget)

2010-04-26T16:43:00.003-04:00

A week from Wednesday, we fly out to Florence. So far the stay looks something like this: 3 days (2 nights) in Florence, 3 and a half days (and 3 nights) in Chianti, 1 night in Cinque Terre, and a final night in Fiesole (just outside Florence). Known highlights so far include lunch and a private tour at a Zonin estate in Chianti and a few other tastings at estates in Chianti. Plans for L's birthday continue to lurk, but they're sure to include the freshest food I can find between Florence and the villa we'll be taking for the nights in Chianti.

So here's a bit of crowdsourcing: if you have traveled there and have any bits of advice, please email or add them in the comments.

One additional note: this will be my first real non-kid trip in 8 years. What a thought...

Date Night Deal... sort of

2010-04-22T09:39:00.005-04:00

L and I recently met up with another couple — Vamsi and his girlfriend Rebecka — for Bouchon's Tuesday date night $50 prix fixe. The restaurant was quiet — a good and bad sign. We admired the space for a bit while our waitress checked on the menu specials for the night. It's a good space, airy without feeling vacant, and muted enough to feel intimate.

The wine list is exclusively French, and I was tasked with finding something appropriate. When the date night prix fixe first debuted, it included a bottle of wine. Considering that the wines started at $28 at the bottom end and quickly cruised into the $45 to $60 range, I could see why they killed the wine-inclusive. Of course, I could also see why the half-price wine night at Acacia might be a better deal. Trying to keep the budget down and knowing we might end up with two bottles, I settled on three bottles that hovered at the bottom end of the list — a Cotes du Rhone, a Grenache, and a Corbieres. We asked the waitress for her take and were told that she'd only had the Corbieres. "But it's a staff favorite," she added. Since it was clear she had nothing more to offer and since we were all fans of Corbieres, we took the recommendation. The wine was good — nice fruit and a clean, dry finish on the palate.

When she came back to take our orders, we asked how the prix fixe worked and flustered her again. Apparently, the date night menu was not the regular menu. On any given date night, there were three off-menu offerings — a meat dish, a fish dish, and a vegetarian risotto. In this case, the choices were a lamb terrine, sauteed flounder, and a wild mushroom risotto. For the appetizer, it was a choice of spring vegetable soup and salad; dessert was a choice between vanilla ice cream and crème brulée. Vamsi and L chose the flounder, Rebecka chose the lamb, and much to L's surprise, I opted for the risotto.

The spring vegetable soup was a good, if thin, vegetable broth with the kitchen's leftover vegetables put to a fair, if underspiced, use. The salad was a rather measly mix of romaine and grape tomatoes. It wasn't bad, but it certainly didn't beat my first criteria — serve me something better than I can make at home. When the entrees came out, things perked up a bit. The fish was well-cooked, nicely sauteed on the outside and light and flaky inside. The side of roasted brussels sprouts conquered even L's opposition to the vegetable. The terrine was a well-spiced mix of braised lamb shank and sausage. My risotto was quite good, but both L and I wondered whether the base wasn't chicken stock. At first, the portion looked a bit light, but it was satisfying in the end.

When it came to the desserts, we ordered three brulées and one ice cream. The ice cream met the vanilla litmus test, but was otherwise unremarkable. The brulée had a good flavor, but the consistency was more of chilled custard. I was reminded of what a chef-friend told me years ago about the problems with brulée on hot, humid days like the one we'd had in Richmond that day — the consistency rarely holds enough to be perfect.

When all was said and done, we debated rating the restaurant, and I gave it a 7.5. Vamsi would have upped the rating slightly, but I held at 7.5. The meal had been good but not stellar. The service and pacing were consistent, but our waitress was far too uncertain of the menu. (I don't care what kind of restaurant you're running; the staff should always know a menu, even if it is just debuted that day.) The wine was good, but I'm not sold that it was appreciably better than a bottle we could have had for half the price elsewhere. In the end, the meal was a B. Given that the restaurant never filled up past a quarter full — and it's a small room — through the evening, their date night deal hasn't caught on yet, or it's just not good enough yet. Frankly, we agreed that date night would have been far better with a broader selection — say offering a tasting of the whole menu rather than such a restricted list of options.

Even so, we all agreed the place was worth another try. It's just not the cheap date place we expected. Once tax and tip were included, our tabs ran to a C-note per couple. For a date night that fits the budget better, stick to Tuesday at Acacia, Rustica, Cous Cous or any of the other small, reasonably-priced joints that will hopefully be added in the comments.

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And if you've made it this far, you can check out this post on the new home for foodies on a budget... coming soon...

Where have I been?

2010-04-20T10:36:00.005-04:00

I had it lurking in the back of my mind that I hadn't posted recently and then discovered that it had, in fact, been almost three weeks since my last missive. I've had a few recipes to post, a few good foodie experiences to write about, some parenting moments, and in the end no time to post. Why, you might ask?

A few things are percolating...

The house purchase. This is eclipsing many, many things at the moment, but I'm looking forward to a kick-ass new stove and some great entertaining space where we'll have friends and acquaintances over for foodie fests.

The Italy trip. Preparations for this have eaten up a good deal of brain space too. I'm looking forward to writing about it from the road however — particularly the nice connections we've scored at a couple of wine estates.

A new blog. Or rather the evolution of this one. I've purchased a new URL and will be moving much of my food writing, and anything related to food over there. I'll keep Impolitic Eye open for a catch-all spot as it used to be and may cross-post from time to time, but stay tuned for news of the blog dedicated to foodies on a budget.

Life in general. There's quite a lot of this going on.

So there's the quick update. Please check in over the next week, and I promise you'll start to see things blossom just as we're starting to see the first delights blossom in Virginia.

Continuing the evolution

2010-04-01T14:23:00.010-04:00

A few little items of business...

Based on my last few posts, you may have deduced that beer-blogging will be returning here. Apparently, besides a general passion for tasting new beers, my refrigerator is an indication that I am also beginning to accumulate and collect interesting beers. Stay tuned for more on this.

Recent changes in life and budget priorities mean that I will be looking very closely at what we are eating and what we are spending. This probably means fewer restaurant meals — not necessarily a great loss — and more creative ways of making amazing (and cost-effective) meals at home. We have also begun to make more aggressive efforts to plan meals ahead. This week's specials: Taco Night and Bamboo Stir-fry Night.

Banana was informed last night that she'll be helping cook from time to time. We're all looking forward to this, and I'm quietly thinking about the challenge when she is asked to prepare a whole meal for the three of us.

Reilly has retired to Ohio. He is quite happy about this as it means he gets more attention and more walks on the golf courses and in the woods. We are sad to miss our greeter — and I keep reminding myself when food drops that there is no longer a dog to help clean it up.

If all goes well, we will be moving to a new house soon with a much-upgraded kitchen. Please keep your fingers crossed that all goes well.

Before the move to said-house, there will also be a trip to Italy. Prepare for profuse food blogging before, during, and after.

Lastly, I'm still playing with the question of whether to rename the whole venture to better reflect the direction this is taking and maybe free me up to start another for writing and photography...

Stay tuned for more, longer, and better posts soon.

Hopfest, pt. deux

2010-03-25T10:46:00.004-04:00

So the three of us — L, the kid, and me — stopped by Mekong for a bite of dinner after swimming last night. I expected to enjoy a beer or two, but I didn't expect our beer guru to follow up my last post about hoppy beer comparisons with an even broader array. I shouldn't have been so naive.

Not that I'm complaining. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He starts with pours of four hopfests and then over the course of the meal adds a few more. L meanwhile gets a Dogfish Head Midas — brilliant stuff. Before I go any farther, there should be a quick note about the food. At our last couple of dinner stops, I've let An pick what the menu for the evening. Last time, the result was a delicious spicy pork dish. Last night, he pulled out the stops with flat noodles and seafood with chili for me and sauteed tofu, shrimp and snow peas for L. The kid got Pho Ga and wolfed down a fresh roll before the soup arrived. While I love Richmond's array of Vietnamese noodle shops, Mekong still wins hands-down for quality and freshness of food. As other local food bloggers have noted, it certainly is among the best restaurants in the city.

That's the food. Here's the beer...

Round one: Terrapin Rye Squared, Bell's Hopslam (the control), Stone Ruination IPA

Round two: Full Sail Hop Pursuit, Avery Maharajah (the control)

Round three: Terrapin Big Hoppy Monster Imperial Red (the wild card, aged six months in An's cooler)

And the verdict:
1. Bell's — I put the Hopslam into its own category; with the honey and smooth hop introduction, this is in a class of its own.

2. Terrapin Big Hoppy Monster — I recall not being thrilled about this one when Terrapin hit the Richmond area last year. With some age under its belt, it has settled down and turned into a great hopfest.

3. Terrapin Rye Squared — These guys really are doing some great brewing. This is a hopfest full of malt, rye and other stuff going on in the flavors. Good stuff.

4. Avery Maharajah — This one is working its way back up in my estimation.

5. Stone Ruination — With 100+ IBUs, this packs one of the biggest hop wallops I've tasted. L couldn't even take more than a sip it was so bitter. Good stuff, but I couldn't drink more than one.

6. Full Sail — This was the mildest of the bunch. After the kind of hopfests it was competing against, it barely stood up. It seemed more like a lightly bitter session beer. I'll have to try this one again on its own.

Before all was said and done, An mentioned the Green Flash and a couple of others that had to wait for another round. Stay tuned. The hopfest will continue...

Hop-tastic fun

2010-03-23T12:31:00.005-04:00

Last week, my friend Jason (aka RVAFoodie) and I had an interesting tasting session with one of our local beer gurus at Mekong. Jason was drinking a Nugget Nectar and I had a Golden Doom Belgian-style blond. We got to talking about hops and asked our guru An how he would compare the Nugget to the Avery Maharajah. He began to describe DIPAs as roller coasters of hop aroma, and then we asked how he would compare Bell's Hopslam next to them since that little bit of rare gold has set a certain standard for hoppy double IPAs lately. Next thing we know, An pours two glasses of Avery and then pulls a bottle of Hopslam from his secret stash. He added a glass of Nugget Nectar for me, and we each had three glasses lined up. Three hop monsters ready for comparison.

Here's what we found:

1. Bell's Hopslam — While An described most DIPAs as roller coaster rides of flavor and mouthfeel, he told us to watch the way Hopslam carried through the entire sip. And he was right, from the floral bath of aroma to the end of the sip, the Hopslam was a smooth, supple ride. Enough alcohol popped through to let you know that you were at a 10% beer, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it could have been. It was a beer you sat down with after dinner; not one you plowed through a few of in a session. It also had enough malt presence that someone who isn't a hopfiend could still enjoy.

2. Troeg's Nugget Nectar — I've had this beer at the brewery and in bottle and should throw a disclaimer out that I loved it before the tasting session. That said, tasting it after the Hopslam was an excellent hop-to-hop comparison of what different hops will add to the aroma and flavor of a beer. The Nugget hops have a more subtle, nutty flavor, and balance nicely with well-rounded malts making a beer that is smooth with enough hop presence to stay interesting from nose to last sip. Compared to the Hopslam, this is one we agreed could be a perfect everyday beer. It's still a little high on the ABV to be a true session beer, but it was easy to see having another one.

3. Avery Maharajah Double IPA — Jason's first reaction to this was "It burns!" The hop presence here is huge. It hits the nose like a sharp whiff of hop oils and characterizes An's description of a roller coaster. There are intense flavors of hops and alcohol that fall off at the end of a mouthful. I'd call it a perfect example of a double IPA — sharp, strong, big and everything you'd want in a winter beer. Placed in a line with the Bell's and Troeg's, however, this one suffered by the comparison. It's still a good beer, but given the choice, I have to say it's a little over-hopped (if that's possible), and I'd probably choose something else for my next pint.

That's my first take. Check out Jason's.

Easy, delicious gnocchi... thumbs not included.

2010-03-15T10:51:00.003-04:00

Because schedules seem busy and complicated lately, I've found myself making dinner for the the kid early and something else for L and I later in the evening. I keep trying to pull things together for all of us to eat at the same time, but it just isn't happening as much as I'd like. In the meantime, though, I've started to simplify what I'm preparing — whether for the the kid or for us. More and more, I find that combining a few really good ingredients and letting the food shine is far more interesting than trying to do full-bore multi-plate meals. This one was one of those pleasant discoveries along the way.

I had a package of Trader Joe's gnocchi — their prepared ingredients often make a good start for my recent creations — and a slew of random ingredients in the fridge. I pulled some bacon out and chopped it into small pieces, slicing off most of the fat. Then I pulled some sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil, a quarter-cup at most, and chopped them up. A couple fresh sweet peppers, a few small heirloom tomatoes, and a handful of spinach rounded out the ingredients. In deference to L's vegetarianism, we cooked the bacon in a separate pan. I sauteed the peppers, tomatoes and spinach in a touch of olive oil added the cooked gnocchi plated a small amount for her, sprinkled with fleur de sel, cracked pepper, a touch of crushed red pepper and parmaggiano. I added the cooked bacon to the pan and finished the saute, adding the salt, pepper and cheese.

In all fairness, I also have to give credit to L on this one. While chopping the sundried tomatoes, I nicked my thumb pretty badly. It was bad enough I had to sit the rest of the prep out and put pressure on the wound. She carried it off well and we plated perfectly.

The result was one of the better and simpler dishes I've done in a while. The flavor of each ingredient came through and they complemented each other beautifully. Served with a decent Barbera, this is definitely a keeper in the recipe list.

The problem with Richmond restaurants...

2010-03-08T14:47:00.003-05:00

This weekend, we had a couple of experiences that perfectly explain my issues with so much of the Richmond restaurant scene. On Friday, my mother came into town, and L and I took advantage of the chance to have an adult meal with her while the kid was over at her mom's.

We batted around ideas like Rustica, Can Can and Coast. A few other favorites like Edo's, Balliceaux, and a few others were dropped because of expected crowds. Rustica was dropped for the same reason. The food and service at Rustica are worth a wait, but we didn't want to take the risk of a long wait. When given the choice between Can Can and Coast, my mother chose the latter for a smaller, more intimate experience. We gave a call and were told tables should be clear soon.

When we arrived, there was a party ahead of us at the bar. This wouldn't have been a problem except that Coast is very small, and two parties decided to take their sweet time after they'd paid their checks. We lingered at the bar and had the she-crab soup, which we all declared excellent, and a basket of the fresh bread. My mother and L had glasses of a nice Gruet from New Mexico. I had a Starr Hill IPA. The owner Gary came over and chatted for a bit from behind the bar. The brief wait got longer as the parties continued to linger. When we were finally seated, the owner sent over a plate of calamari to make up for the long wait. He also pulled a nice bottle of Valipolicella Ripasso for us — it wasn't on the wine list, and the price was a very reasonable $32.

When it came to our entrées, the only stumble was that they'd run out of crab cakes. Nonetheless, my mother chose the sea bass and housemade tagliatelle, and L chose the sauteed flounder with tagliatelle instead of potatoes. Both fish were perfectly done and light without being bland. I broke my usual code of not ordering things that I prepare myself and ordered the lamb chops which came a perfect medium rare, with a nice reduction drizzled over the top. For dessert, we opted for a chocolate torta with berries, and it too was right on target.

The overall tab without tip came in at $172. Not cheap, by any means, but it was an "occasion" dinner. The thing is we could easily have spent the same or more at one of Richmond's more central and popular restaurants — and come away far less satisfied. What Coast has going for it includes the quality of ingredients, the simplicity of preparation, and the professionalism of the service. What it loses is location, a problem that the owner's other restaurant solved until it was controversially shut down in November by the new building owner.

This was the high point.

The next day, we decided to do lunch out and dinner at home. After batting around a couple of options, L and I decided we'd try to make our peace with Mezzanine. Unfortunately, Mezzanine apparently changed their hours without changing their website. We decided to try Water Grill — the Richmond Restaurant Group's latest offering. The brunch menu seemed extensive and worth checking out. Once inside, we were seated in the windowed front room — so far, so good. L and I ordered an Allagash White and a Dale's Pale. The server delivered them, declaring confidently that the Dale's was the White and the White was the Pale. When I switched them, she giggled and admitted that she didn't really know the difference between the beers.

We ordered around, the kid getting french toast with sausage on the side, mom getting the crab bisque and an arugula salad, L getting a crab cake Benedict with fruit instead of home fries and an arugula salad to share with me, and a croque madame for me. The soup arrived before anything else, and while it was clear that my mother was being nice about it, the consistency was so thick as to look gelatinous. She didn't finish the bowl. The salads arrived next and were the best part of the meal. The kid's french toast arrived, as did the sausage. She was tired, though, and ate about half of the toast and a couple bites of sausage before declaring herself full. L's crab cake benedict arrived with home fries; thankfully, it tasted good so she ran with it. My croque madame was made with Texas toast that tasted as though it had been in the kitchen a couple days past its freshness date, and the white of the egg was runny when I got to the middle. The kid's sausages were also a little undercooked, which is a pity because they seemed a nice, thick maple sausage. Somewhere in the middle of the meal, the server asked me if I wanted another beer. I told her I might, and to check back with me. About ten minutes later, and as I had decided I wouldn't be getting another beer, a pint arrived.

The tab for this meal: $72. For brunch. This would seem high, even if the meal hadn't been a prime example of Richmond's restaurant mediocrity. As I've experienced with several of the RRG restaurants, not to mention other restaurants around town, the combination of preparation errors and server inexperience made the tab seem like even more of a crime.

The final restaurant experience of the weekend came at Legend Brewery. Now, Legend has struggled for years to balance quality of food and service with the quality of their beer. On the bright side, they've had the advantage of one of the few good outdoor locations in Richmond, and the deck was busy that afternoon. A busy afternoon doesn't excuse bad service, however. I ordered a Hopfest, one of their seasonals, and L asked about a sampler. The server was fidgety and said that she thought they were out of sampler glasses. Again, it was busy, but not that busy. We decided to get my beer, and L would try it to see if she liked it. The kid ordered a quesadilla and a Sprite. This is important because the kid rarely orders without prompting, but the server didn't seem to care about listening to her; she looked at us for the order.

About five minutes later, the hostess arrived with two pints of Hopfest. She looked a little sheepish when we clarified what the order was. Thankfully, L liked the Hopfest, and we were set. The server followed a few minutes later and dropped — literally dropped — the quesadilla between L and me. By this point, we were already saying how much we always wanted to like Legend. The thing is the place was messing up the simplest of things — the beer order was botched, the service was rushed and bad, and the quesadilla came without chips. When we got the server's attention and asked about the chips, she told us that chips didn't come with the quesadilla. L pointed out that the menu said kid's items came with chips, and the server said, "Well I can bring you some, but the quesadilla doesn't come with them." And she turned on her heel. In the end, we left after one beer and a light snack. The server got a $2 tip, and even that seemed too generous.

There is a difference between quick and professional and rude and unwelcoming, and this server crossed that line. Unfortunately, unprofessional and/or uneducated servers are too much the norm around Richmond restaurants. It takes so little to know how to do a job well and how to give people good service that I get more than a little frustrated when someone says a busy day is a good excuse for bad service. There is no reason a server at a restaurant where brunch can run upwards of a hundred dollars should not know which beer she's serving. Likewise, there is no reason a kitchen in such a restaurant should use stale bread and turn out undercooked items. When it comes to Legend, our poor harried server lost out on a decent tip and a higher bill by simply not caring how well she took care of her table. Whether she disliked kids or looked at us and decided we weren't worth the time, I don't know; I just know there's no excuse for such service.

Unfortunately, too often, the norm at Richmond restaurants is weak service and food that doesn't live up to the price. I've complained in the past about the lack of good, moderately-priced neighborhood restaurants where you feel welcomed and can walk away satisfied without breaking the bank. Ultimately, if I could wish one thing for the Richmond restaurant scene, it would be more restaurants like Coast and Rustica rather than more restaurants owned by the same three or four owners or more places that seem to feel like it's okay to be just good enough.

Goat Cheese!

2010-03-03T15:29:00.003-05:00

Last week, fellow Richmond food bloggers One Couple's Kitchen wrote about their experiment making homemade goat cheese based on a recipe from Serious Eats. The process sounded remarkably easy and jived with my growing urge to know the chemistry and mechanics behind the making of food. I want to step beyond just cooking and using ingredients and understand how to create my own ingredients. That's really one of the goals for 2010. In this case, I knew Trader Joe's was stocking goat's milk, so it was easy to make a go of it.

All it requires is a quart of goat's milk, lemon, salt, garlic, cheese cloth and a food thermometer, and an hour and a half of your time. That's all.

We came back from Sunday dinner with the neighbors. I poured the milk in a stainless pot and watched until the thermometer hit 180º. The recipe called for a quarter cup of lemon juice, but I was working with whole lemons and seem to have lost (or purged) my juicer. I juiced a lemon and a half through a strainer to curdle the milk and waited for 20 seconds or so while the curdle happened. The curd then went into the cheese cloth — we used about eight layers to be sure that it held the curd — and I drew up the corners. Tie the satchel on a wooden spoon over a large bowl, and then wait.

When it was finished, I mixed it with a crushed clove of garlic and three pinches of good salt and let it stand, covered over night. That's it. So simple.

We tried it with friends the next night, and it was a hit. I would say it was a touch on the lemony side, and I think I'll be tempted to source some milk that is not ultra-pasteurized in the future. That said, this is one that I'll keep coming back to.

Next up: Corned beef, more cheese and returning to making hummus.

Changes afoot...

2010-03-01T14:47:00.004-05:00

As my few regular readers (and other assorted friends) know, I've been pondering where to take this blog for a while now. I've tried to drop some of the personal component — or at least trim back the navel-gazing — and find a real purpose and goal. Lifehacking has become a regular theme. Food and locavore concerns have too. My restaurant notes have only come in fits and starts. Travel has been sparse. Parenting has settled into a place where I feel less like I'm trying to figure it out day-to-day. Politics have become onerous, irritating, or just plain boring. So where to take this thing I've been rumbling about with for almost six years now? An answer — or at least the germ of an answer — hit me this morning.

The idea spun off a conversation L and I were having last evening. Over one of our inexpensive TJ's wines (L'Authentique, a drinkable French bottle) and very nice Gearhart's Chocolates, we were talking budgets. Specifically, we were talking about what each of our budgets looked like and what they would look like if we meshed them. From there, the question came about how we could save money — or at least more money than was breaking out of the initial calculations.

This is a particularly tough question for us (or me). As any regular reader or friend knows, we enjoy good wine and cheese and food and other epicurean pursuits. We enjoy going out for happy hour and/or dinner — though it happens far less than in my past days. I also have the habit of making expensive and involved meals on a semi-regular basis (see the bouillabaisse post). The thing is that this is the area of our budget where we probably have the most flexibility to trim costs. But how to go about it?

I was pondering the question while standing in the shower this morning and thinking about ways to get more involved with the new Slow Food chapter that has launched in Richmond. And then it hit me: why not take this blog in a cheap-icurean direction? It occurred to me that we could figure out ways to enjoy an amazing and interesting epicurean experience with friends at home and improve our entertaining while cutting our costs, and detail it here. Think Not Eating Out, but with a bent toward my friend's writing about living an Easy and Elegant Life on a budget. Or to put it a different way: a foodie blog for parents and professionals who want to live well — and maximize value and savings.

So there it is — a new series or direction for the blog. I'm going to work on refining this, and bringing it in line with the ideas of life-hacking, brewing beer, making cheese and whatever else I can think of, and I'm going to throw at the wall like a handful of mental paint and see what comes out. Stay tuned...

Igloos!

2010-02-24T15:48:00.004-05:00

This past weekend, L and I joined her family up in Pennsylvania for a little weekend gathering. It was to be her parents, her brother and sister-in-law and their sons, and her sister and her boyfriend. The Kid was going to stay behind for this one since it was going to be a full house and was already scheduled to be her mom's weekend.

The day we arrived L's brother Jeff had been working on a small snow fort with his three-year old son. That and the snowman were the perfect things for any little kid in a place with LOTS of snow. But it wasn't enough for the adults. Nope. Jeff had it in mind to build an igloo. First, L's sister went out to help. Then her boyfriend went out to help. Then L went out at her mother's coaxing. Finally, I dug out my gloves and joined the group.

First, some snowballs were thrown. There was some joking about the efficacy of building an igloo — how one might do it using Rubbermaid containers. Making the blocks seemed easy enough, as did mortaring them, but how did one curve the walls in and create a roof? That question came up and got knocked aside as we plowed forward with building the foundation. We spent the first couple of hours getting the foundation up to about three and a half feet. Working out problems as we went. J's three-year-old son was out for a bit, then lost interest as the adults plowed ahead.

After a lunch break and a trip to Troëg's for beer tasting and growlers, J headed back out. The rest of us trickled out again, and the building continued. This time it became more of a mission — we were going to finish this damn igloo. It hit me, then, why it was becoming so important. First, J wanted to do this for his son. The kid needed to have an igloo. But for me, it was different. I'd always wanted to build an igloo as a kid, and now I knew why I hadn't achieved the goal. Without manpower and stamina, it's virtually impossible to build the damn things. Thirty years later, I was finally going to achieve the dream.

It went beyond that, though. It went back to something I'd always missed as a kid — a real, cohesive sense of family. As an only child with a very limited family nearby, I never really had this sort of team feeling. The sort of feeling that we're all in it together. In fact, for years, I'd chafed against the idea of family, and now I realize I didn't really know what it meant. Chalk building an igloo up to one more lifehacking lesson — building an igloo is like building a relationship. It takes time and effort, and enjoying the people you're with makes it all the better.

Bouillabaisse!

2010-02-15T14:21:00.003-05:00

One intersection of my lifehacking and cooking efforts happens with my decision to follow through on things I've long said I will do. In the case of this weekend's Valentine's celebration with L and several friends, this included finally making bouillabaisse. It is something I've said I would do for several years, but every time I almost did it, I backed off. Not this time.

I did my usual recipe digging and found that bouillabaisse, like paella, is one of those dishes that has few rules other than the the base ingredients. In my research, though, I kept coming back to a version of Julia Child's original recipe. It is a simple matter of building the stock and then letting the rest of the ingredients come together as needed and based on what you have available to you. And then, of course, there's the rouille.

Once I'd settled on the recipe, the next step was plotting out the ingredients. Bouillabaisse can be a pricey affair — unless you happen to be family of someone who harvests shellfish and catches fresh fish. Since the numbers from dinner could have ranged from 6 to 12, I had to shoot a little high on the ingredients. Since I also had to aim for convenience and time-efficiency, the source would be Whole Foods. I started with a half pound of mussels, a dozen littleneck clams, a dozen extra large shrimp with the shells on, and two-thirds of a pound of scallops. By and large, the shellfish were in beautiful shape, though I did end up pitching about a quarter of the mussels. For the fish, I opted for tilapia and cod, almost two pounds total. They had the right consistency and flavor and were beautiful cuts without being as expensive as other options.

I made a few other substitutions along the way. For the sake of time and since truly beautiful tomatoes are hard to come by right now, I opted for a large can of diced tomatoes. I also skipped the step when fish skeletons are stewed and used a mix of my own fish stock, a quart of Whole Foods' fish stock, and a quart of water to cut the intensity. The other tweaks I made to the base recipe included a healthy splash of Cointreau and about a quarter cup of Sauvignon Blanc. I also decided to rest the broth off heat between the initial near-boil and bringing it back to heat and adding the seafood a couple hours later.

Bouillabaisse was a muse a while back, but not something I'd ever cooked. As such, I didn't know about rouille — the little side sauce that creates a bit of magic when dolloped in bowls and slathered on fresh, crusty bread. Most recipes use water- and lemon- soaked bread as the base for the paste, but Julia's recipe had a variation using almonds. Since we'd be heavy on the bread anyway, I decided to try the almonds as an alternative. By the time I was working on the rouille, I also had word that the crowd would be 12, and I decided to double the recipe. I roasted two peppers using Alice Waters' oven-roasting technique, added my own dried chili from last summer's market. The puree quickly turned a bright orange — aided by a touch of saffron — and I began adding the olive oil per the recipe. At a taste, the flavors were rich and explosive, but L thought it tasted a bit heavy on the olive oil. It was a perfect opportunity for a little kitchen training for the kid, a chance to explain that you countered the fatty flavor of the oil by adding more lemon, more salt, and a bit more of the chili to sharpen the flavor. Another couple minutes running in the food processor, and the rouille was ready to put aside.

After a quick interlude for Valentine's Day celebrations and a glass of Linden Vineyards excellent 2005 Claret (another story for another time), we migrated the food next door for the actual dinner party. The celebration was kicking in, and it would be another hour or so before I'd go through the final steps. At that point, ti became a game of time — adding the shrimp, then the clams and mussels, then the scallops and finally the fish sliced into inch-wide strips at intervals so the soup could be pulled off the fire and served minutes after the last fish was added. Timing hasn't always been my strong suit, but it worked this time.

At final listing, the menu stacked up as follows: cheese fondue with vegetables and bread, a pear/walnut/gorgonzola salad, the bouillabaisse with bread baked fresh by our host, a champagne rose petal sorbet also made by the host, chocolate fondue, and home-made eclairs. The wine flowed, the kids had their own celebration, and it was declared one of the best (and most decadent) food celebrations any of us could remember.

There's something magical to sharing a meal with people. When done well and in the right company, all sorts of boundaries can drop and time stops for a brief, wonderful period. When you step away with full stomachs and the touch of sweet and bite of savory still lingering on your lips, a light just seems to shine on the rest of life.

Bisque!

2010-02-08T13:50:00.002-05:00

I've decided to begin running with new ideas and new recipes for the coming year. I want to learn how to do things like make corned beef. I want to challenge the boundaries of dishes and preparations that I already know. I want to pick out an old food magazine every week and find things to make out of it. I want to — as I outlined a couple posts ago — take a second look at the ingredients in my cupboards or in the market and rethink how we're eating.

Last week, I took a shot at this when L and I were debating what to make for dinner — without wanting to eat out again or do another big grocery run. She had an acorn squash, and I had the muse of making a winter squash bisque. With the quick direction to pick up some sherry and another squash at the store, and a plan to get bread at our local French joint — Can Can — I did a bit of research and came up with a nice recipe to tweak.

Instead of the called-for olive oil, I opted for butter, and on the sauté, I added a healthy dose of smoked Spanish paprika. Beyond that, I followed the recipe to the letter. The result was a hearty, smoky cold-weather meal of soup, bread and salad. Since L is not a fan of all-things-smoked, however, I decided we needed another go at the soup this weekend.

The second round I upped the stock a bit and added more tomatoes, since L would be serving it at her book club. This meant all the spices needed a boost, as did the sherry. In the end, I switched up the smoked paprika for sweet Hungarian paprika, and the result was a very different (and much better) bisque. With a dose of ground chili and thyme at the end, the soup struck the perfect note. With any luck, the women in L's book club will agree.

Regardless, I'll be making this one again for sure. What I love about the soup — besides the taste, of course — is that it is so simple. The recipe only involves a few ingredients and some fairly simple preparations to achieve a result that seems (and tastes) far more complex. The next step will be to jump past the kid's pickiness and get her to try it too. Wish me luck on that one...

Snow

2010-02-06T11:39:00.002-05:00

Richmond is now getting its third major snowstorm of the winter. After a week when the kids had only 5 hours of school on Thursday, parents around are dreading the possibility of another week of snow-amusement and child-care improvisation.

It's funny to me that after years of growing up around snow and cold weather, I'm finally tired of it. It's not so much the cold or the slush that I mind. It's the way it throws all schedules to the wind.

At moments, it is truly wonderful to be forced to slow down, have some coffee or a glass of wine and take stock of our surroundings -- and then improve them by organizing or purging things we don't need -- and enjoy slow time with L, the kid, and friends. But it's the moments when schedules have to be adjusted or plans changed and then rescheduled for... who knows when. Those are the snow-driven hitches that really bug me.

Life is a precarious-enough balance of schedules, needs, requirements, expectations, and demands without having everything thrown to the wind and reorganized. That said, I intend to make peace with the snow and with life and continue to feel good about balancing it all.

So much beauty shouldn't be wasted on resentment.

snow dreams of food

2010-02-04T15:14:00.004-05:00

Richmond is seeing its snowiest winter in recent memory this year. It's almost as though all the jokes about runs on the local grocery stores for milk, eggs, and bread when the word "snow" hits the forecast have finally brought karmic retribution back on us in the form of two good-sized storms. Each has dumped nearly a foot of snow on the area and paralyzed businesses and shut schools. The kids have had a hell of a time, and parents are running out of ways to amuse them. After all, there's only so much you can do when you live in the heart of the city to send your kids out to pasture.

There have been some collateral benefits, however. They include slowing down by necessity and re-acquainting ourselves with the house, and remembering to cook more and use more of the food that stuffs the fridge. Recent adventures have included remembering how to make crépes, gingerbread and biscotti (thanks to L), fondue, chili, and more.

Last night's adventure was more of a culinary break than I've made lately. Facing down dwindling supplies of various staples and specialty items, I knew we had a few hurdles to cross. L is a pescatarian, which means I have to temper my meat-loving tendencies for some meals or find a general balance in others. The Kid has lately gotten even pickier about what she'll eat — a foodie kid losing her omnivorousness is another post for another time. Lastly, I realized feeding us all at the same time wasn't going to work. Solution time...

The kid got pesto pasta. It's not the most creative solution, but some penne with TJ's pesto on it is a sure-fire silver bullet when she's hungry and tired. Add a bit of feta and a few grape tomatoes, and the meal is complete and easy to put together while she hangs out with us.

For L and I, I concocted a wholly different idea. I had lentils that had been around a while, a small stash of grape tomatoes, an onion, garlic, and a well-stocked spice cabinet. A quick check of Saveur brought up an Ethiopian lentil stew. That combined with some savory whole-wheat crépes started to sound a whole lot like an improvised Ethiopian dinner. The lentils took about an hour to cook and come together. It was the right amount of time for mixing up a quick crépe batter and running the crepes. I pulled one of the small zucchinis in the fridge and sliced it into quarter-inch-thick half-moons. These I tossed with a bit of olive oil, cumin, salt and pepper, and put on a baking pan to roast while L was working on biscotti, round 2.

When the crépes were ready, I laid out one on each plate as one might find a bed of injera in an Ethiopian restaurant and then added two more, folded to quarters, to section off the plate. On one side went the zucchini, and on the other a pile of lentils topped with a small dollop of plain yogurt. On a shared plate, I put out The lentils weren't as spicy as I'd hoped, so I'll be looking for some real berbere powder for the next attempt. Nonetheless, the flavors came together wonderfully and both L and I finished the meal with nearly clean plates.

I recommend stepping back and looking back at your cupboards once in a while and thinking about new ways you can use the same old ingredients.

getting away

2010-01-25T11:12:00.002-05:00

One thing I have not done at all for a few years is really make time for adult activities — for a real break from day-to-day schedules and the demands of my life as a parent. In fact, I haven't even really done this when the kid has been off with her mother for a weekend or a week. Instead, my time has been spent doing things related to parenting and daily schedules — errands and thoughts of what I needed to do when the kid came home. For better or for worse, this meant that I never really released myself into the rest of life.

This weekend, L and I made the first step toward changing that. We had a fine evening with two other couples at L's place — something she has wanted to do for a while — and then took off for the rest of the weekend in DC. It's the first time in over a year that we've done something like this, and it was far belated.

We had reservations at the Hotel Palomar in Dupont Circle. Since we were arriving a couple hours early, we parked in Georgetown and wandered the neighborhood a bit. It was L's first time and only my second time as an adult. (From now on, I'm declaring childhood recollections of places off limits.) We roamed the drags and perused a few shops, wandered across and along the canal, and generally soaked in the feeling of being in a large city again. The streets were busy and lively, and it reminded me of what i missed from my years in New York. After a bit, we landed in a little Italian place for a refreshment. There were a thousand other restaurants, but this little old-school boîte of a place had the perfect vibe for sitting and sorting out our plan.

After checking in at the Palomar, we relaxed for a bit and then took advantage of the nightly wine reception. The pours were generous, and the snacks staved off a bit of hunger. In general, the vibe of the crowd was lively and urbane, ranging from thirty-ish to mid-sixties, straight and gay, couples and groups. We caught snippets of people comparing notes about other stays at the hotel and its sister hotels — and it was easy to tell why guests quickly become repeat followers.

We changed for a night out, still without a formal plan but with an initial goal of heading over to the Churchkey/Birch and Barley, DC's new beer bar off Logan Circle. Apparently, it was also one of the "places to be." The upstairs (Churchkey) was packed to the gills, but the bartenders navigated the crowd with aplomb. They pulled 4 oz tastes quickly and pints constantly, but were still willing to take the time to talk about the beers and/or where in the area to find hard-to-find items like bottles of Hopslam. The menu was nothing special, though the cheese list had some interesting choices, both regional and international. As for the space and the crowd, we'd recommend slipping in to the downstairs instead if you want quiet. There is a small bar space off the restaurant down there that does not require reservations and is gorgeously appointed. We'll be sitting there next time. In the meantime, the beers and service impressed.

By this time, we were fully hungry and thinking about the rest of the evening. We batted around some options we'd considered and opted to head back to the restaurant at the hotel — Urbana. Far from being your standard hotel restaurant, the place was buzzing with life. Their menu had a mix of interesting small plates and pizzas and a decent wine list, and our zeal for tackling bars, clubs, or blues cafes was waning. At the risk of sounding like a sycophant, the restaurant impressed too. We sat at the bar near the pizza ovens and had stellar service. I compared oysters from Long Island and the Rappahannock and they were among the freshest and best-presented I've had in a long time. Our simple white pie had a nice layering of flavors. The beet salad was split into two plates for us and had a nice helping of local chevre. The kicker were the mussels, fresh and simply done in a garlic/white wine/butter/shallots preparation that had us sopping up the liquid with bread after the mussels were gone. Topped off with a nice bottle of Clif the Climber Red 2006 (a tasty zin blend for $30), the meal couldn't have been a better complement to the rest of the day.

The next morning, we wandered out of the hotel to Le Pain Quotidiene. Though I'll usually opt for the local joint over the chain, LPQ is small enough and unique enough for me to overturn that rule. We opted for a fairly-inexpensive breakfast of brioche and buttermilk scone (with oatmeal and flax seed, perfectly served with whipped ricotta and apricot preserves) and two pots of coffee. It hit the spot, but my complaint with LPQ stands at this: to step up to a more substantial breakfast would have taken us from just under $20(!) to nearly double that — unnecessarily expensive.

We followed the breakfast with a wander through the Dupont Farmers Market — another reminder of what I miss about city life. Though Richmond has developed some nice markets in recent years, I still miss the ability to wander out of my door or hop on a subway and get to a full-service growers market at any time of the year. Nonetheless, we resisted the urge — partly because L was shivering — to stock up on much and only walked away with an excellent ash-covered cheese from Firefly Farms.

We headed down to the mall to roam around a bit more, checking out the National Museum of the American Indian and Capitol City Brewing Company. Time slipped away a bit, though, and we decided to defer the National Gallery stop for a later trip. Time was getting tight for getting back to Richmond and connecting with the kid.

And there's the kicker on the weekend. Though in the past I often spent my time away from my kid plotting for her return home or thinking about what would be different if she was with me, on this visit I was wholly there. I knew the kid would be coming home, but I wasn't thinking about that. This was finally our time. It was a remarkable feeling, and I think I am finally starting to understand how to balance life as a parent with my own needs and desires — and how that plays in with the other people in one's life too.

ad satire hilarity meets the way we really should feel about processed food.

2010-01-21T14:19:00.001-05:00

Oh, food, why have we forsaken you so?

Eyes on the Prize

2010-01-11T23:21:00.005-05:00

So far on this set of lifehacking ideas, I've hit upon:

Begin with reasonable expectations. If that means finishing one task every day or making sure one part of the house is clean every day, so be it. You've made a start.

Focus on what you're doing, and make lists that you can actually complete. Use this as a way to clean up the "stuff" in your life.

Don't obsess. Take the moments where you want to play with an all-eclipsing thought and find a way to bring your focus back to what's important, what needs to be done in the here and now. Beyond that, find a way to take the negative and find the positive. And in all cases, remember the positive.

Grok things. Don't just hear them. Grok them.

Ultimately one of the things this really comes down to is keeping your eyes on the prize. It's a cliché, I know, but it's a useful one. The prize can be any number of things, whether it's a clean house, finished projects, happy kids, a healthy relationship, saving money, traveling, achieving a professional goal, starting a business, cooking a meal, making yourself and other people happy. It could even be all of those things.

It all comes down to follow-through, whether small or large. I can't emphasize that enough. It's something that I've tried to instill in the kid — every day before school, she feeds the pets and makes her bed. It's small stuff, but making a habit and routine out of it has proved remarkably useful in the larger picture. If you move to the larger picture, it comes down to something I haven't always been good about in the past — committing to a plan. Once you commit to something, you must follow through with it, and any misgivings must be worked out and put aside — much like the obsessions mentioned above.

At a personal level, here's what it comes down to... I've screwed up a lot in my life. There have been a lot of things I haven't owned up to and mistakes I've made. I've made lots of promises without really knowing how to make said-promises happen. I've hinted at things that I knew in the back of my mind wouldn't really happen. I've taken on obligations and then struggled with myself to follow through on the obligation. Certainly, I could get into psychological dig-downs of this stuff, but talk is cheap. It comes down to action.

I don't want my daughter or anyone else in my life to have to pick up the pieces or wonder why I didn't do what I said I was going to do. I don't want to leave unrequited or unresolved hopes because I said I would do something I couldn't. I don't want my daughter to skate over to me at the rink and ask why I look sad any more. (Another story for another time.) The life-hacking I'm doing? Well, it's for me, but it's also to make my world a better place for everyone and anyone in it.

Beer, the road, lessons, and North Carolina

2010-01-10T22:38:00.004-05:00

John and I hit the road yesterday for our first beer-only trip. Past trips with his wife and L have been built around a mix of beer and wine, but this one was about getting out of town for a day, seeing some new territory and finding good beer. We batted around everything from a long (5 hrs) trip to Dogfish Head or the Philly/southern NJ area to our usual haunts in the western part of Virginia to North Carolina. The NC breweries won for lack of traffic and pure novelty. Good thing, too.

We hiked off with the MacBook Pro and the iPhone tethered to sort out the final destinations and decided upon initial stops in Chapel Hill. There, we had lunch and a tasting at Carolina Brewery. The food was quite tasty, and the beer was good. Not stellar, but good. The tasting included a kolsch, an amber, an ipa, a winter seasonal schwarzbier, a porter, and a brown. Each brew was solid, but fell off on the finish. Everything was good enough, but nothing really pulled us to buy a growler. The next stop was quite a contrast — Top of the Hill Restaurant and Brewery.

We climbed the stairs to this fourth-floor restaurant/bar, and the vibe was off from the beginning. The place felt like a combination of country-club bar ("The Social Crossroads of Chapel Hill") and dingy hotel restaurant, right down to the staff wearing black shirts with ties. We ordered a tasting, but the sixth was going to be a blend because they'd just run out of their seasonal One can hope that the seasonal was actually good, though, because the other beers certainly weren't. Flavors were off. Body was awful. From the experience, there was literally nothing to recommend the beer. Period.

Our next stop, though, was a brilliant surprise. We hiked over to Durham, to Triangle Brewing Company. We stumbled into a warehouse space on the wrong end of town, but it was full of people tasting the beer, playing ping pong, chatting, hanging out, you name it. On tasting the first beer, it was clear we'd come a lifetime's difference from Chapel Hill. Rick Lyons was producing some truly excellent beers, from an abbey ale to a classic dry stout. He's not bottling much yet and isn't selling much outside of NC, but he really is one to watch. To wit, we had a good long conversation with him, and it was interesting to hear all the tricks he's been putting behind building that business. I look forward to more conversations and tastings with him in the future.

Triangle was followed by Big Boss in Raleigh. These guys are doing some crazy and good beers. Unfortunately, we didn't get to meet the brewers. Fortunately, the tap room was a fun scene. The beers included a really solid brown, a nice belgian-style golden ale, a spicy harvest, a beautifully-done Belgian dark and a few others I've lost in the notes. All were well-done, and I really liked what they were doing with the taproom business model.

The final stop of the day was at the Boylan Bridge Brewpub in Raleigh. Their space is modern and clean, and the beer is good. I'll leave it at that, because nothing stood out enough to warrant a growler purchase. In fact, I would recommend a stop at the place because the food is excellent, but I wouldn't tell a beer geek to go there for the best (fill in the blank) s/he's had. Nonetheless, it was a good end to the trip, and the brisket special really was over-the-moon good.

In between all the major events, there was an intensive conversation, and I finally understand what it means to grok things. An excellent day, really.

Obsessing

2010-01-07T22:35:00.002-05:00

Probably the biggest failure in my lifehacking effort to be more focused and disciplined is my predilection for obsessing over everything and anything. Worse yet, throw me into a period of emotional (or other) turmoil, and I go full-on into the obsession monster. Everything could just fall away in the world for those hours/days/weeks/months. Any measure of my list-making and dish-doing is only triage in the face of the all-consuming need to obsess.

The funny part is this obsession can happen in a variety of ways. On the positive side, it can involve diving intensively into new preparations of food. Watch me preparing for the paella, for instance, and you'll find me digging up every recipe I can find to figure out how I want to improve what I've done. Watch me preparing for new creative project, and you'll see me obsessively digging up everything I can find and often talking about nothing else. These are the positive moments. The negative moments are worse. give me an emotional ball of string to play with, and I'll bat it around like a crazy kitten until everyone is sick of hearing about it and I'm sick of playing with it. And yet I must continue to until I know what I'm trying to learn/feel/grok/accept.

Looking at the whole picture of life now from parenting to working to moving forward with plans for the future to maintaining a level life to cooking to you-name-it(!), I realize that this is in fact one of my biggest stumbling blocks in the lifehacking I'm trying to do.

So what to do about it? That's a really good question. It may even be the area where I need the most input or advice. I know how to make lists and focus. I know how to complete tasks. I know how to focus on what is right. But when I reach obsession-land, all of that might as well fall by the wayside. So, the trick question is how to do this — how to take what I know and find the middle way to control the negative obsessions and channel the positive obsessions.

Game on. Suggestions welcome.

It all comes back to focus, and lists.

2010-01-06T15:10:00.005-05:00

After thinking further about my last couple entries, I think I've struck on a good way of playing this all out. See, you have to understand that I come from a family of pack rats. My father is the messy sort with everything he's ever owned stashed somewhere in the house he shares with his wife and their adopted daughter. From broken ship models (casualties of a brief foray into cat ownership years ago) to the original patio furniture he had when married to my mother, it's all there. My mother is the neat sort of pack rat, the sort who keeps things for years but who can also get rid of things when she recognizes that it's time — though sometimes the "getting rid" involves sending the box of old childhood trinkets to me.

What this means is that I have lots of stuff and sometimes forget to get rid of or organize stuff. And when you have a kid you acquire more stuff on a regular basis, from new craft kits to school homework. Having so much stuff makes it very hard to focus sometimes. It's easier just to stick your head in the sand and look at something else than clean up that pile in the corner you meant to tackle months and months ago.

Tackling this stuff down the line is one reason I've decided to start small as I said in the last post. But there's a bigger picture here, and that bigger picture is actually about how to tackle the small picture. And it comes down to lists.

I'm not talking about that big honking To-Do list we all tend to make — the grocery list of everything we're supposed to get done. Too often things get dropped off such lists or pushed to other lists, because it's easy to do this. I was recently reminded of something I learned years ago during the emotional havoc of my divorce — make small manageable lists.

When you make a list, only put on the items you know you can accomplish in a give time frame, be it a few hours or two days. Then tick those items off in the order that makes the most sense. I tend to knock off the small ones first and move to the biggest ones last — kind of the snowball method of Getting Things Done. That way, by the time, I get to the biggest items on the list, I don't have small stuff to worry about. I've also usually spent some part of my other productive time thinking about what's coming up — a design project, a blog post, making dinner — so that taking the larger items seems like less of a chore.

If all goes well and I keep making these little lifehacks into real habits, my plan is that I will eventually tackle the big items that keep getting pushed off because I'll actually have made the time to do it.

How do you keep yourself organized and disciplined when it comes to the things that just pile up in life? And, mind you, I'm "speaking" tangibly and metaphorically here.

Reasonable Expectations

2010-01-05T15:26:00.003-05:00

I think I will declare 2010 the Year of Reasonable Expectations. It begins with my notes in this post about cleaning the dishes when they are used and goes so much farther. See, for several years now, I've battled this feeling that I was not reaching the success or goals I wanted — even if I wasn't always clear what those goals were. In the end, I'd beat myself up over failing to live up to my own expectations.

It was easy enough to blame circumstances for why things weren't working out. Someone else had let me down or something just wasn't right. There were circumstances beyond my control — even if I could just chalk it up to my own failing, there was still a way to make it beyond my control. The thing is none of it was beyond my control. I was just letting myself fail.

Part of the answer for why I let this happen can be chalked up to my upbringing. Garrison Keillor is right when he makes fun of Lutherans for their low expectations — or rather for their (our) expectation that nothing will ever be as good as you want it to be. Growing up with a good core of midwestern Lutheran values on my father's side, expectations remained low. Just do as you will, don't expect too much and get through life was a common ethos. Add to this the expectation on my mother's side that one simply goes through grad school and finds life in academia, and there simply wasn't much training for me on how to take great ideas and make them happen. As a natural dreamer, my response was to cook up grandiose ideas — say, launching a magazine in NYC in 1994 with no money and no backing — and lose interest in them when I started to run into the real problem of making something happen. It was easy then to slip quietly back to what I'd been doing before. This is exactly what I did when the prospect of working on a book and life collided in 2004.

The problem with these goals and others I have in mind is not that they were unattainable. I just didn't know how to attain them. I didn't grok how to set reasonable expectations so that I could methodically get where I was going. It's akin to trying to beat back the clutter that has taken over our house. Looking at it globally and saying I am going to do this, I practically guarantee my failure. It's just too easy to put off the vague parts of the large goal until they become just one more lost opportunity. If, however, I set reasonable expectations — keeping the dishes clean, for instance — I can move on to the next reasonable task once I've consistently met that goal. Or, for instance, if I'm working on a project, it's fair to know what the big picture is, but I can't spend my time worrying about the big picture as I try meet each small part of the tasks at hand. My discipline is weak, and if I do get caught up in the big picture, the risk of stumbling or making excuses is much greater.

I explained to the kid the other day that it was important for us to finish something before we moved on to the next thing. She wanted to know why. I asked her how many unfinished projects/books/ideas we had around the house, and she looked at me sheepishly. The lesson seemed to stick, though, because a couple days later when I asked her to do something else, she said she needed to finish what she was working on first. Remember? she asked.

I will. And now I have to go tick one more item off the list.

My New Years Present

2010-01-03T00:12:00.002-05:00

Fathers Day. Birthday weekend. And now New Years Day. The Kid has managed to lose a tooth on all of these occasions.

The New Year is here, with a burble.

2010-01-02T23:26:00.003-05:00

As it has a few times now, the New Year blasted in with a blaze of paella. A friend and I had a throwdown at a neighbors' house. She dove into a seafood rendition while I put together a traditional dish with chicken, chorizo, and a few shellfish for good measure. To boot, I cooked in my tux since we (minus one, sadly) were all headed to a neighbor's house for a black tie party after dinner.

It was a hell of a time, and both paellas came up beautifully. In the past couple years I've discovered a couple of my favorite secrets for a great dish — the right chorizo and smoked pimentin. The chorizo this year was a spicy, coarse-ground variety I located at Whole Foods. It had a delicious earthy character, and just enough spice not to overwhelm the other ingredients. This year, I finished the paella on the grill and finally managed a perfect soccarat. As a nod to some other great paellas I've had, I add asparagus and freshly-roasted peppers. The final trick for the New Years paella is a nod to Southern tradition — black-eyed peas. Buddha knows with the way December went and all the plans on tap for 2010 that I can use all the luck I can get.

Kudos to my neighbors for putting together such a great evening — both parties. In fact, at the dinner house, we concocted a little dinner party for The Kid and four others, complete with a babysitter to manage a slumber party while we trucked off to the party down the street.

That said, it is the new year, following a rather ignominious end to 2009. The hiccups of life and relationships got the best of me, and I spent a good bit of December melancholy and reflective. This past year was full of challenges and tests — and efforts to move into the next phases of my life. As it came to an end, I found myself looking at The Kid and realizing how remarkable she is — and how she will never be seven-and-a-half again. I found myself licking a few wounds and getting perspective on some old ones. John and I brewed a couple stellar batches of beer. All in all, the end of the year was much like the rest, full of contrasts between high points and low points and full of teaching moments.

For the new year, I'm not making many resolutions. In fact, I've really only come up with one so far — to do the dishes whenever I use them. I consider it a small portion of a larger effort to gain control of the chaos that too-often envelopes the house. Forget the pressure of bigger resolutions; I'm sure I will come across other goals to pursue along the way.

Death by Cute

2009-12-30T16:01:00.001-05:00

I happened to need a laugh and found this on a friend's Facebook page. It sufficed...

Marketing to kids...

2009-12-21T15:07:00.004-05:00

This morning, the kid was playing with Webkinz on the iMac. At one point, I glanced over and realized she was in fact surfing the new products and was watching a video about some sort of deluxe subscription service. My "dad" voice went on and I told her to turn it off or return to playing with the characters. She wondered why, of course, and I started in on an explanation of what was going on — that she was being sold products that she would then want me to buy. I've tackled these issues here before, but today's conversation came on the heels of the biggest lead-up to Christmas yet, or rather the first one where she's putting specific demands out that are coming from commercial influence.

Until recently, I kept a fairly tight cinch on the kinds of TV she could watch — pretty much locking the options down to Boomerang (which does not show commercials and recorded shows where she could skip the ads). And until she moved in with someone recently, her mom didn't have cable at all. At home, she has discovered other channels and begun to watch them when I'm not paying attention. And these channels are jam-packed with ads for all the latest toys every kid needs.

I thought about all this as I approached the Webkinz question this morning — and as I face a Christmas where she will be getting franchise-building things like American Girl and Nintendo DSi. Rather than shutting it all down and eliminating cable (at least not yet), it seemed like a good chance for a teaching moment. We sat in front of the computer, and I asked her why she thought the Webkinz site was showing her all the great products she could get to expand her collection. She said it was so we would go buy them — so far so good.

The next lesson was about need. I asked her why she "needed" the cute koala or yorkie toys, and she said she needed them so the animals she already had would have more friends. I asked her if she really "needed" the toys or just felt like she needed them and really just wanted them. We've discussed the difference between want and need in the past, so she aced this question. I went in for the kill.

The reason they make her "need" them, I explained, was because they know how to make kids want something so badly their parents get it for them. I added that we could get things we wanted when we can afford them, but I wanted her to understand that it really was just a way for the companies to sell more stuff.

Looking back and writing about it now, I wonder how best to keep approaching this lesson without being a thorough killjoy. It's not that I want to isolate her from every venal form of advertising and marketing to kids — I can't — but I do want her to understand when the shiny object they're trying to sell her might not really be all it's cracked up to be.

Friday Fun — a ukulele edition

2009-12-18T15:04:00.002-05:00

Not sure why I've been on a little ukulele kick lately, but there you have it. Here are a couple of selections to lighten up your Friday. Feel free to add more in the comments.

Picked up from Boing Boing...

Another good one from Sophie Madeleine...

The requisite adorable kid that makes me smile every time. This boy is brilliant...

Locavore fun.

2009-12-15T11:41:00.004-05:00

I got a call from a coworker yesterday asking me if I wanted a piece of venison. He'd pulled a back strap (filet) out of the freezer and had a small chunk of it left. Of course I do, I said. Not being a hunter and without a reliable source, I've never had the chance to prepare venison, but it has been on my list.

The piece he gave me was a little over half a pound, and I decided to prep it for dinner last night. Figured I wouldn't tell the kid what she was eating until after dinner. With distractions like homework and letters to Santa, I needn't have worried. She hung out in the kitchen while I prepped the meal.

I'd done some research on preparations and came down to the following: quick marinade in red wine, olive oil, salt, pepper, and sage. Three minutes on each side to brown it with a touch of olive oil in a hot cast-iron skillet. Seven minutes in a 400-degree oven. Transfer to a plate and put the skillet back on the stove for a reduction. Reduce the reserved marinade with extra wine and a splash of balsamic vinegar thrown in. Serve with couscous and snow peas.

The meat came off a perfect medium rare. With a drizzle of sauce, it was tender and lean and just phenomenal. The kid even ate her whole serving and gave it two thumbs up. I decided to compliment it with a wine produced only a few miles from where the deer had been shot — Villa Appalaccia's Toscanello. I've wanted to pair this bottle with venison since I first poured it at a wine festival two years ago, and I'm pleased to say my gut instinct was dead-on. The pairing was phenomenal. The layers of fruit and pepper from the sangiovese/primitivo/cab franc blend complimented the flavors of the meat so that holding both in your mouth produced a brilliant synergy of flavor.

The kicker on the whole thing was getting around to telling the kid what she'd had. "I ate deer?" she asked. When I said yes, she said, "Hunh. It was good." One more foodie-parent victory...

Mornings, pt. 7,384

2009-12-15T11:02:00.002-05:00

I blew up at the kid this morning, but what was notable about the explosion, however, was the realization that I wasn't really yelling at her. I wasn't really mad at her. I was blowing up at myself. I've had so much on my mind and have so many things swirling around in life — from the ups and downs of relationships to the holidays to worries about our brewing plans to money concerns to an endemic lack of sleep to every other little thing you can imagine — that I seem perpetually on edge right now. This morning it boiled over when a cup of water spilled. Granted the kid has a bad habit of leaning on tables, or the breakfast bar in this case, but doing so and knocking over a cup of water really shouldn't be a trigger for me to yell.

Honestly, I have to say that one of the most difficult parts of parenting is balancing all of these demands. And when you have your own emotional issues to navigate, the smallest irritations of life with a kid can be magnified by all the other pressure. This isn't the first time I've felt this, but what is different now is that I caught myself. In the past, I might have carried over the irritation and frustration to everything else. What I chose to do this time was admit to the kid that I was hurting and that I was sorry for making her feel bad. Very sorry.

Friday Fun — advertising edition

2009-12-11T14:42:00.002-05:00

This is the kind of stuff that makes advertising just outright fun — a reformed alien speaking for Raisin Bran... Brilliant!

Picked up from Boing Boing.

cooking, or getting to it

2009-12-08T22:48:00.003-05:00

I realize that I haven't been writing very much lately on one of my favorite subjects — food and cooking. For one reason or another, I also haven't been doing very much cooking lately.

In any case, the coming weeks will bring my annual foray into my take on my grandmother's Swedish Meatballs. Much as I love IKEA's meatballs in a pinch, they have nothing on this preparation — particularly with the inclusion of meat from Belmont Butchery. In past years, I've done gløg. This year, I may attempt her Swedish fruit soup. Maybe I'll even pull one or two more Swedish traditions out of the woodwork.

For New Years Eve, I'll do the paella I've done the past few years. Since someone else will be doing a seafood preparation this year, I'll be able to return to a full-on recipe. I may even pull the rabbit parts out of the freezer for a flavoring saute, and I may even jump to a wood-fired preparation on the grill. It all depends how adventuresome I feel, and whether I feel like cooking in a tux again this year.

And then there's the Super-Dad Cookie Baking Party...

A Poem

2009-12-07T14:30:00.004-05:00

One of the kid's assignments in school last week was to write a poem. I can only assume based on the result that it was a similar exercise to what we did when I was doing teaching trips in grad school. Be that as it may, I'm pretty proud of what she came up with:

Red is the taste of apples being picked,
Rassberry juice squirting in your mouth,
Ripe tomatos on the plant waiting to be picked,
The fragrance of roses in a vase on a table.
Red is yarn being played with,
Bean bags being sat on by children
and flowers in the sun.
The scent of cranberry juice in a bottle.

Not bad for a seven-year old.

customer service — fails and wins

2009-11-30T23:13:00.002-05:00

On our way to Dayton last week, we stopped at Tamarack outside Beckley for lunch. Tamarack is an arts center with food service by The Greenbrier, a resort outside White Sulphur Springs. It's an oasis in the land of bad travel food and cookie cutter service areas. It can also get very busy on big holiday travel days. That Wednesday was no exception.

The layout in the food service at Tamarack is poorly set up for large crowds. One entrance funnels to grill and deli lines set close to each other, and you cannot order from both lines at once. This means you need to have two people waiting in both lines if you want items from each or be willing to order on one line and then wait in another. On busy days when there are also many travelers not accustomed to the system, things can become a bit — um — delayed.

When we stopped on Wednesday, things were busy, and a man was guiding people to which line they should join. I asked him what I should do if I wanted to order in both lines but had a child with me. He took one look at us and asked whether she wanted a pizza. She did. He said he would put the order in for us so we could get in the grill line (the longer of the two). When I'd placed my order, the woman behind the counter told me we needed to wait for the pizza. Instead, our kind concierge overheard and said we could sit down; he'd bring the pizza to us.

It was a small, important gesture that made a long trip easier. Kudos to him and the rest of the staff for that moment.

************

On the flip side is our local Indian takeout/delivery joint. We've ordered from there in the past and generally had good luck. Tonight was a fail in both food and service.

Among the dishes we ordered was Vegetable Korma. On the menu, it is described as fresh vegetables in a cashew and onion sauce. L asked if they could add chickpeas to it, and they obliged. What arrived was a gloppy, creamy dish of cubed carrots, peas, and corn. The sauce wasn't bad, but it was clear that we'd gotten frozen mixed vegetables.

L was reluctant to call, but I decided it was worth it. The man remembered the order and informed me we'd gotten exactly what we'd ordered. I suggested that the vegetables should be fresh if the menu said they were fresh. He countered that they only used fresh vegetables like broccoli, cauliflower and potatoes, that they used frozen mixed vegetables for the korma. Then came the most stunning moment: he made it our fault for not asking what was in the korma. If we had asked what was in it, he would have told us and we could have ordered something else. I stammered that fresh vegetables should mean fresh vegetables and that we weren't happy with the dish. To no avail. I was informed that they had given us the chickpeas like we asked and that we should have asked what else was in the dish. This was just the way they made the korma — apparently in a topsy-turvy world where frozen really means fresh.

I won't name names here in deference to a recent note on food blogs by Brandon Fox, but suffice it to say that our local Indian takeout joint near VCU — on Main Street — will not be getting business from us again any time soon.

a brief note on consumerism

2009-11-27T23:08:00.004-05:00

I would like to have called today buy-nothing day for us, if only to counter-balance the stupidity of people who will wait all night to get in a fight over an electronic hamster. Instead, we made our way to IKEA so grandma could get Buttercup part of her Christmas haul — a desk and bookcase to facilitate the changeover to a "big girl's room" — and one of the recently-built, urban-center malls in the Dayton area for some clothes. In the end, our little shopping trip pumped somewhere in the range of $700 back into the economy.

Such a sum isn't exactly what some people might dump out on the day, and it was a bare scratch on the whole gift question. Still, it seems notable to acknowledge that we were pulled by the desire to shop on the same day that so many other people went out to pound the pavement for questionable deals. It seems a validation of the cultural norm that is shopping — we do it so well in this country.

What struck me as I was walking around today, though, is the degree to which we are marketed common experiences. I've thought about this and written about it before, but it particularly struck me today when I realized that there were few, if any, locally-owned businesses in any of the places we went. Every shopping experience was standardized to the point that location simply didn't matter. And to an extent, individuality didn't matter — and was perhaps discouraged.

This is really an outgrowth of my past thoughts on place and identity. After all, if there is nothing to connect you to the place you are, what forms your identity? Can a series of brands and manufactured experiences really pass for identity? And if this is what we're raising our children with, what sort of identities will they possess when they come into their own? Will they see the value in unique experiences or will they be like the students I've taught and worked with who only ate at chain restaurants because anything else was "weird"?

Discuss.

(Photo is not from today's excursion.)