Happy HalloWEEN!

While we were in Traverse City last weekend, we fully planned to visit the Short's Brewery in Bellaire. We didn't end up going that far afield, thanks mostly to a mid-afternoon stop at Right Brain Brewery, which was walkable from our hotel. We did our research anyway and as we paged through the Short's menu online, we started to notice a naming trend in all of the dishes. They all seemed to be Ween songs. Uh, cool.

Now, if you only know Ween by 1992's Push Th' Little Daisies, then you're probably thinking it's time to leave this post for something far less annoying. But if you did that, you'd be missing what they are really all about: wonderfully weird, genre bending, wiggle inducing. In the spirit of Halloween, here's one that's apropos:

If that was still a little too much for you, consider this one:

Both from my favorite album: Chocolate & Cheese.

Cheers!

True Love, Baby!

I'm feeling much better about yesterday's burrito sauce shenanigans and in a good mental state now to share. The recipe for shredded beef is versatile, and I've used it more for chili than burritos, so keep that in mind if I've made you sauce shy.

Shredded Beef Burritos 

Here’s what you need:

2½ lbs. of boneless beef, cut into 1” thick strips
2 cups of water
12 oz. tomato juice
2 tablespoons of chili powder
½ teaspoon of oregano
¾ teaspoon of cumin
3 cloves of garlic, minced
2 medium onions, diced
½ teaspoon of crushed red pepper
1 smallish chipotle pepper, seeded, stemmed and broken into pieces (optional; depends on if you want this flavor)

If you make burritos, here’s what you need for sauce and filling:

One package of large flour tortillas
One package of Mexican blend shredded cheese, room temperature (I used Kraft Philadelphia mix this time)
1 cup of beef broth
A dash of balsamic vinegar
Sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste
1 tablespoon of cornstarch, if needed

Here’s what to do:

Brown beef in oil and salt after browning. (I forgot to do this, and I’m not sure it made any difference. Except a noticeable lack of salt; so, if you also skip this, add a few grinds of sea salt to your pot at some point.)

Transfer beef to a dutch oven, mix in remaining ingredients, and bake at 325° until meat is tender. This was about three hours for me on this batch. Remove from heat and separate beef from liquid. Pour the liquid into a medium sauce pot and shred the beef in a separate bowl.

If you want to avoid the sauce fiasco part, I recommend removing about one cup of the liquid and discarding it. Now, stir in one cup of beef broth and bring to a low heat. (I know what you’re thinking; just trust me.) Stir in balsamic vinegar, salt, and pepper, then begin whisking in small handfuls of shredded cheese, letting the cheese melt completely before adding more. (Having the cheese at room temperature helps it melt without clumping. So does using a wire whisk.) Continue adding cheese until the sauce thickens. If it doesn’t, or you’re worried you’re reaching clogged artery critical mass, then spoon one tablespoon of the sauce into a small dish and let it cool, then mix in the cornstarch. Slowly whisk this sludge into your sauce and bring to a boil, whisking constantly for about one to two minutes. If you don’t have a thick sauce by now, I’m sorry, but I think you’re screwed and should probably make quesadillas instead. If you do have sauce, great! Move on to the next paragraph.

Raise oven heat to 350°. Grease a glass dish that’s large enough to fit your tortillas lengthwise. Fill tortillas with cheese and beef, then roll up and set in dish flap side down. Pour sauce over the burritos to cover, then top with cheese and bake for about 15-20 minutes. Serve to your loving and grateful husband (who, incidentally, made an amazing homemade salsa to accompany.)

Shredded Bliss.

When I was in my fifth and sixth years of college, I was taking mostly writing and literature classes. I was still in college at that point because I had decided to tack on an English minor when I was almost completely finished with my Social Science (History/Philosophy/Political Science) Major. You might think I was deferring the inevitable, but really I had quite belatedly figured out what I really wanted to do.

In my studies, between Boccaccio and Zora Neale Hurston, was the quaint Ms. Emily Dickinson. During that time, I envisioned a similar life for myself as hers—one that found me alone, unmarried, reclusive, and happily eccentric. I embraced this fate to the point of building my stone cottage in my mind, planting imaginary herb gardens around it, and brewing a pot of fictitious tea that I would sip throughout the day while I typed my yet unwritten works. This all sounded divine to me.

But right after I graduated, my dreams of spinsterhood were dashed. Because…I met the man who is now my husband. The first love interest ever who accepted me for my strangeness, rather than despite it. Who I didn’t feel I had to change for in any way (for real or perceived). Who was my intellectual equal and often my superior, without ever making me feel it. A friend like no one I have ever known.

And, so, at age 24, I chose this mate—and he, at 23, chose me. Six years later we decided to make it legal, and today is our 13th anniversary. (That’s 19 years if you do the math. Whoa.)

For this occasion, I’m making shredded beef burritos, at the request of Mr. B. The recipe dates back to our early days and survives time well.

(I had planned to share it here, but I had some trouble with the sauce, lots of cursing followed, and though it did turn out in the end, I'd rather not talk about it right now.)

This better be good, damnit!

Double, Double Toil and Trouble.

Even as a kid, long before the truths of adulthood would help me understand why anyone would plead, Calgon, Take Me Away…, I knew the value of a warm bubble bath. There is little multitasking you can do in the tub unless you’re especially creative, which means your time spent there can be used for uninterrupted daydreaming, outlandish fantasizing, and celebrity-like basking. Sorry, Reality, you’ll have to wait outside.

As a fairly low-maintenance adult, I have few requirements, but one of them is always a bathtub. No tub, no deal. Now, if you happen to have a Jacuzzi, you don't just have a deal, you have my undivided attention.

Here’s where the rest of this story comes in…

When I was first introduced to LUSH—halfway around the world, in Budapest, actually—I nearly passed out. Bath bombs, bubble bars, bath melts: a smorgasbord for the serious soaker! And with fragrances like Karma (what former hippie doesn’t have a soft spot for a touch of patchouli?), Breath of God (an assumed tongue-in-cheek name for a scent that emanates a blend of tobacco, leather, and scotch), and Dirty (reminds me of foxy Frenchman named Jean-Christophe who…oh, never mind!), these people don’t just have my number, they have it memorized.

The fact that they are ethically conscious, environmentally forward, and cruelty free, on top of developing some of the most delicious creations imaginable (I told you: speed dial!), makes this a righteous deal indeed.

So what happens when one encounters too much of a good thing? LUSH Temple of Truth Bubble Bar meet Hotel Room Hot Tub:

Time to turn off the jets:

And... the only thing left to do when your cup runneth over? Build a Buddha for your bubble temple:

Sounds of the Road.

Driving along the curves and bends of M-22, Grand Traverse Bay to the right and the tip of Leelanau Peninsula on the horizon, what better sounds could come from our stereo than Budos Band? Can't think of any right now. Enjoy!

(Chicago Falcon from Budos Band II)

Cool Stuff, Spotted.

I'm on a short vacation in Traverse City this weekend. I probably should have posted for today before I left, but I was half hoping I might find some inspiration when I got here. Instead I found a big dish of smoked Gouda mac & cheese with peas, ham, and haystack onions. The intense energy that my body is putting toward digestion is sapping oxygen from my brain. Can't think. Trying hard. So full...

In place of what would have probably been a genius piece of writing if not for this staggering impediment, I'll point you to this interesting site: Spot Cool Stuff. Their facebook page is actually better, or at least better at sorting out the best stuff.

I'll also direct you to some of my favorites: a camper that converts to a boat, places that resemble Dr. Seuss illustrations, and pod hotel rooms suspended from trees. Wow.

Before the Ugly Sweaters.

What an unusual day...

Before 10:00 a.m., a coworker and I rescued a baby bird that was trapped in our building. That was cool.

About 45 minutes later I was drinking a mimosa toast with everyone in my company (we were celebrating, as you might guess).

The day devolved from there, as does usually any day that starts early with a mimosa and doesn't continue on that line. And, from experience, any day that does.

I went straight to dance class after work and learned two new styles: khaleegi and dabke. And then we put them together with a traditional Egyptian style belly dance to create a three-part set.

I was sufficiently pooped already, but from there I changed clothes and met Ben at a local pub for a late meal and a magically delicious Peach Porch Lounger saison from New Belgium Brewing. An ear-warming, face-flushing 9.4% later, I was in a pronounced state of buzz. 

I'm home now. Still fuzzy. What shall I do with this post?

Hmmm...do you know that Bill Cosby recorded music with Quincy Jones in the late 60's? 

I Love It...

You don't know how close you were to getting a public service announcement from me that helps back up my claim that artificial sweeteners are no good for dieting and no good for you.

Instead, I'm excited that I just discovered a new (to me) poet: Nizar Qabbani from Syria.

His work reminds me of Neruda. Sensual and longing. In love with women and their bodies. In love with love on an equal level. These are my two favorites so far:

Every Time I Kiss You
Every time I kiss you
After a long separation
I feel
I am putting a hurried love letter
In a red mailbox.

 ~~~

Love Compared
I do not resemble your other lovers, my lady
should another give you a cloud
I give you rain
Should he give you a lantern, I
will give you the moon
Should he give you a branch
I will give you the trees
And if another gives you a ship
I shall give you the journey.

~~~

They're lovely, don't you think?

Art Imitates Art.

I love discovering new music, but because we don’t have good independent radio here in Grand Rapids (though I have friends who would beg to differ), I have to be especially diligent in following other resources. Like the young(er) people I work with, who turn me on to artists like Young the Giant and Beirut, the handful of finds that find my ears on Pandora and 8Tracks, and my most reliable source: NPR.

Today I heard, to the first of my knowledge, a group that’s been around for 10 years. They are amazing and I can’t imagine how I missed them. I’ve been replaying their Tiny Desk Concert throughout the day, and for an extra fix, found this video:

 

They're called Dirty Three. Loud, theatrical, and experimental. LOVE.  

Hmmm...

I’ve recently discovered an auteur by the name of James Altucher. He’s hyped in a way that Seth Godin was hyped back in the day, and, because of that, I am currently sitting on a fence built of solid skepticism. 

For a few deep breaths, Seth Godin was (maybe) saying something important (to people in my professional world), but now I’ve started to suspect that his new fall line is sewn with transparent threads. And that we are all sitting here naked, with only a stack of his books covering our laps.

I don’t really want to be one of those people who falls for the hoopla, and yet this guy, Altucher, intrigues me. He writes about ideas that question our common views. More importantly, he challenges us to question them. 

Is going to college necessary? Is voting effective? What happens when we erase our own labels? I have to say that I love that someone is asking.

Am I buying it? Not sure. For now I’m just window shopping. 

Taco Surprise!

I really did cook the most amazing dinner last night, and considering the pork recipe was adapted from one I found in Cooking Light, I'm feeling extra special about it.

If you're going to make it, get started early: both recipes require fridge time.   

Char Siu Pulled Pork Tacos with Sesame-Apple-Cabbage Slaw

Here's what you need for the pulled pork:

¼ cup lower-sodium soy sauce
¼ cup hoisin sauce
¼ cup ketchup
3 tablespoons honey
1 teaspoon dark sesame oil
½ teaspoon five-spice powder
2-3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger, peeled & grated
Boneless pork roast or pork tenderloin, about 2-2½ pounds, trimmed of fat and cut into large pieces
1 package of soft flour tortillas

Here's what to do:

Put the first eight ingredients in a large zip-loc bag and squish until well combined. Add pork and squish some more until well coated. Refrigerate for about 1-2 hours.

Preheat oven to 350°. Pour all contents of the zip-loc into a dutch oven, cover, and bake until tender, turning pork occasionally to keep it moist. Plan for about 2 hours for a roast; a little less for tenderloin.

Remove from heat and transfer pork to a large bowl, reserving the sauce that’s in the dutch oven. When pork is cool, shred it and mix well with your hands. Add equal parts of water and reserved sauce, if needed. Save the remaining sauce for the tacos.

Here's what you need for the slaw:

2 tablespoons lower-sodium soy sauce
2 tablespoons seasoned rice vinegar
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1 thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger, peeled & grated
½ tablespoon raw sugar
¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper
½ of a medium head of green cabbage, thinly sliced
3 green onions, sliced, including greens
1 small Granny Smith apple, peeled and sliced into matchstick-sized strips
½ sugar snap peas, stems, ends, & spines removed, sliced lengthwise into matchstick-sized strips
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Here's what to do:

Put first six ingredients into a small bowl and stir until sugar is dissolved. Toss vegetables into a larger bowl and stir in dressing until mixed well. Add salt and pepper to taste. Refrigerate at least one hour before serving.

When you're ready, reheat the pork and serve on warm tortillas with slaw on top. Drizzle with a little sauce, if desired.

Best served on fine china, not paper plates!

Have a Nice Day!

I have a friend who I am trying to encourage to start a blog. I only know her professional writing, but I feel fairly certain that based on her personality and wit, she would write something really great. For some reason I am way more into this idea than her, I guess mostly because I see a desire in her to be creative and I wonder if her hesitation just needs a shot of confidence.

Anyway, at lunch a few weeks ago I was poking her about it, and she said she was thinking about it, but that if she did write a blog, the subject would be about being a mother and all of the funny, crazy, and horrible things that happen with her three children.

So, I asked, “Then why not do that?”

And she said, “Because I’m afraid that if I’m totally honest (which is what would make it interesting) that people would judge me; think I’m a terrible person. Especially my family.”

The conversation devolved into the unlikelihood of using a pseudonym and then fizzled from there.

Later on, I started thinking about my own writing. While I do edit myself and don’t post everything that’s on my mind, I also reveal more than I probably should. But…because, for me, the good stuff is always in the gory details, I can’t help myself. Not necessarily being conscious of what my readers might think of me. Or realizing that what I find amusing may be totally rotten and I am the only person laughing. Bashing the Olympics? That’s pretty sedate. Bashing children? Maybe that’s going too far. Bashing my grandmother? OK, I might as well light my own self on fire.

I always trust that the ones who know me won’t be horrified. That I am just whoring out my inner thoughts for the sake of entertainment (often only my own). And even in being real, it is all exaggerated for the same purpose.

I’ve fantasized about going incognito, but I wonder if that one strand that is tied to my identity is also tied to my decency. I think: yes.

I Resemble That.

My grandma LaVanda was not a nice person. You might think that I’m not a nice person for announcing that to the world, but, for those of us who knew her, this isn’t exactly an exposé. She was self-absorbed, judgmental, and mean-spirited. Visits with her were nothing more than tests of endurance.

While I was looking through family photos the other night, I started to get an uneasy feeling as I could see, for the first time ever (ever noticing, that is), her face in both mine and my mother’s. And in her crazy outfits and tendency to enter a room with a curtsy, even more of me.

The hat is too much, isn't it?

And then, again, remembering the narcissism…

All of which might make you (me) wonder if I am also destined for old batdom.

But, for all her faults, she was also adventurous, independent, and strong-willed.

Hmmm...where to next?

Well, maybe just a little sippy-sip.

So how will I fare? I guess that is up to me.

Cat Power.

I'm watching Project Runway. On my laptop, in the office, not thirty feet away is a post I've started. But, instead, I'm writing this on my iphone.

I'd love to finish my other post, except something has happened tonight that has never happened in the last eleven years (for longer than sixty seconds, anyway).

Our cat Pye is konked out on my lap and has seemed to have forgotten that she believes I am the antichrist.

And because I am so desperate to bask in her approval, I can't interrupt this moment.

Sad, but true.

Grenades, Parades, and Grandmas.

As I get older, and work & associate with more and more people who are young enough to be my children (or, that is, I am old enough to be their parent), I realize the deafness on which my references fall.

I think you all know that I don’t love a grenade. I don’t even love a parade. But I do love a play on words. Which is much more fun if everyone has the cards to play along.

I can thank my grandmother LaVanda for many of these, brought to me by our yearly visits, which were fruitfully laced with selections from Popular Standards for Organ and Piano.

Bicycle Built for Two is my favorite. Shall I play it again?

Ta-da! (As she was wont to exclaim...) Here is I Love a Parade, in its gloriest of glories. I don't expect you to watch it, I just want someone to know I'm not making this up.

I... Love a Grenade!

The feature of Juxtapoz Magazine's November issue is Politics & Art. My favorite piece so far is Shepard Fairey's "Love Is the Drug."

What do you think?

A Metamorphosis.

My spring and summer:
Spent in abundance and thrift.
Now leaves fall. Surprise. 

Dreaming of Me.

I’ve been checked out of my hotel room for several hours. I’m seated in a public restroom and I look down at my bare abdomen and thighs and notice a strange white-speckled rash covering them. I lean forward to check my calves and see tiny white worms crawling all over. They seem to be emerging from the raised bumps. I shriek and brush spastically at my legs, eventually removing any surface trace.

I dash back to my hotel to shower, forgetting that I’ve already turned in my key. I remember that there are communal facilities in the lobby and I beeline in their direction. (I'm thinking: at least I can rinse off...) Except that they’ve been replaced with a row of outhouses, and currently there is a rowdy bunch of high school students chasing each other in and out of them.

I open my eyes. I sigh, unspeakably relieved. And then I close them again. 

I’m at the airport lounge, sitting with a group of strangers. One of them is convinced that we use the same radiused channel brackets in our cubicles as they do at his workplace. I can’t confirm, so I tell him I will photograph them when I get back to the office and text him the pic. Except that I can’t seem to enter his number into my phone. I try writing it down, but I fumble and miswrite it several times before realizing that my flight is leaving. As I collect myself in a hurried frenzy, I remember that I’ve left my car at the long term parking, and if I get on this flight, I will abandon my car in another state.

I probably should get off this plane.

I rack my brain to recall why I’ve done this. I have no memory of driving my car here and can’t fathom why I am now going home without it.

I open my eyes again. And decide to keep them open for the rest of the night.
    

What'll I Do?

I have a dinner party tonight, so there won't be any late night writing for me unless I slip away for a few lingering moments and have them all wondering why I've been in the bathroom for so long. (Maybe it was the pumpkin dip...?)

I heard about this piece on WGVU (again) this afternoon while This American Life was doing its part to raise funds for public radio. It's from the late, great David Rakoff. It's another long one, and if you don't have the patience to wait for the best part at around 11:40, you'll miss what leads up to making it so beautiful. Wait for it, my friends.

Beat It.

Tonight we were driving home from one of my favorite restaurants, Bombay Cuisine, & the radio was on WGVU. Between pledge requests for their fund drive (Oh, yeah, I already gave!), they were playing their usual after 7:00p.m. jazz set. Art Blakey was on, and Ben said I should write about jazz drumming.

It was a good idea. Except that I have no intelligence for describing what it is about it that I love. Just that I do. Tito Puente, Gene Krupa, Chick Webb... they all created sounds that reverberate from the center: prickling the skin, pounding the chest, awakening the sensibilities. And Art Blakey is in there, too.

Please have the patience to watch & listen to this recording of Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers performing one of my favorites: Moanin'.

Don't Breed on Me.

I think many of you know that I consider most children to be detestable creatures with filthy hands, bad manners, and low intellect. (Of course, I'm not talking about your children...)

My punishment for being such a despicable person is that one or more of these lovelies is always, always (always) seated behind me on an airplane. Which further deteriorates any possibility that I will have a change of attitude on this front.

So what a surprise (to me and everyone else) that I found these children's toys and drawings so irresistible. I even thought, "Aww, I want one!"

A toy. To clarify.  

And I'm kind of joking. But not about the dirty hands part. That's just gross.

Hungry Like the 40+ She-Wolf.

I'm not proud of this, but back in the early aughts, I had a recycled crush on John Taylor of Duran Duran. I can't remember exactly how my fireplace got re-lit, but the whole thing was shamefully unashamed. I bought two of his solo albums, and fawned like my teenage self over pics and articles I found online. I even rented a movie he was in, called Sugar Town. (Not a bad film actually.)

If I were ripe for another girlish moment, I guess it would happen now. The other night, while fruitlessly searching for my Deee-Lite CD, I came across both of those albums I bought. Then tonight, at the hairdresser, I happened on a piece on him in a gossip mag. He is still lovely. But, no. I'm not falling for it this time. Nope. No.

Don't Read This.

Brief after-dinner conversation at the household tonight:

Me: "What's my post going to be about tonight?"

Mr. B. (knowing I have no idea whatsoever): "You're fucked."

Me, sighing: "Fucked like a whore."

So, is it me, or did I just invent a new saying? I mean, in this context. Yes? No?

Either way, sorry for the profanity. I was thinking about bleeping it via strategically-placed punctuation, but that seems a bit timid.

This is all I've got, by the way. Oh and this line that I wrote for work today for our healthcare audience, which is completely unusable:

"I'm nuts about prostate health."

Who wants a t-shirt?

love in the lower case.

I was at Anthropologie the other night and noticed "Love Poems" by Pablo Neruda set demurely on a table along with delicately-folded intimates and sweetly-sensual fragrances. Hmmm.

Tonight, I fought the urge to write about Mr. Neruda again. But, I remembered another collection that I blushed over before picking up and taking home: "erotic poems" written and illustrated by e.e. cummings.

Here is a favorite:

xx:
you asked me to come:it was raining a little,
and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air
wonderfully stumbled above the square,
little amorous-tadpole people wiggled

battered by stuttering pearl,
                                leaves jiggled
to the jigging fragrance of newness
—and then.  My crazy fingers liked your dress
….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle

flower,and the flesh crisp set
my love-tooth on edge.  So until light
each having each we promised to forget—

wherefore is there nothing left to guess:
the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite
thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.

~~~

Did I mention it's illustrated?

Sweet.

Arranged neatly in my subconscious is a small army of perceived truths, organized for easy reference so they may be deployed when the timing suits. There are plenty of truth-truths in there, too, but the ones that are funny (peculiar) to me are the ones that I’ve just made up. They may have their toes dipped in the sands of reality, but they are still mostly unsubstantiated.

They come from a variety of questionable sources, like the too real dream that plants a false fact, or a misunderstood message that sticks, even after the confusion is resolved (did you know that cranes are nocturnal?).

The notion that fat free candy can be eaten in 5 lb. servings without a fattening effect is another. This belief allows me to guiltlessly gorge on gummi bears, licorice, Swedish fish, and jelly beans under the misguided guise of responsible snacking. It also makes me turn a suspicious eye on any fat-filled sweets, eschewing them as omens of obesity. This is crazy, kind of.

Still, it is so stubbornly stuck in my mind that I rarely indulge. That is until recently when I learned about Unreal.

This is strictly research, folks.

I'm hopeful about this. And I love the black light effect here. I'm a dork, I know. And I might be a little idealistic. But I'm OK with that.

Erect.

When I was in college, I moved around constantly in the Heritage Hill neighborhood, mostly because I wanted to get inside and experience these historic homes and have their extraordinary architectural elements be a part of my daily life. One place had an ornate fireplace, another had a corner turret, and another had stained glass windows and delicately detailed embellishments carved in the natural wood that trimmed every window and doorway.

My love of architecture has followed me through my life and has also led me to destinations where fine examples live.

Like Mill Run, Pennsylvania:

Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater.

Manhattan's Upper East Side:

The Guggenheim Museum (Hmmm...also Frank Lloyd Wright).

Budapest, Hungary:

Imre Steindl's Hungarian Parliament Building.

And, the good old World Wide Web, where I just discovered a site that features magnificent examples of visionary architecture. If you're like me, you will get absorbed by Architizer and someone will have to come and wring you out of it. Awesome.

A Conversation Piece.

For two nights in a row, I've wanted to put up a post, but I am missing two important elements: a piece of collateral and a piece of information. I expect both of them to present themselves soon-ish. In the mean time, here is a masterpiece by Mister Jalopy.

Not Looking Back...

An ad during the presidential campaign got us on the subject of Rush. We talked about some favorite songs and I recalled one that was later in their library, but still respectable—before they put on water skis, if you know what I mean.

Time Stand Still was a late night anthem that my friends and I sang together when we were no more than 22. We were thoughtful and sentimental, despite our youth. We had important and sometimes passionate conversations about the world around us, which, amusingly, mean nothing today. Just as today's dialogues will be forgotten or irrelevant tomorrow.

Time does not stand still as we may have wished for it to do back then. When our lives and futures were so straightforward. When our moments of revelation seemed so mindful; so authentic; so astute.

We knew nothing. Just so you know. ;)

      Hmmm, technology has changed a little...

Nothing to cry about.

Yesterday was a really tough day. I cried during Morning Edition on my commute, I fought back tears during a health insurance update meeting, then let them flow into my leftover chili at the picnic tables at lunch with my workmates, then some more in the car on my way home, and again after I got home. While I have mentioned that I am well in touch with my emotional mechanizations, especially when it comes to periodic blubberings, this was neither welcomed or expected. Or at all possible to control.

There is something wrong and yet there is absolutely nothing wrong. My life is so right, I don’t even know how to adequately tell you.

Sure, hearing one more news report on the presidential campaigns could send a person wailing and begging for it to end. And learning that my medical coverage is about to change in a most uncomfortable and inconvenient way could make me sob in self-pity. But the chili I had at lunch was not sad at all. I made it and it was delicious. And heading to my comfortable abode after a long day usually makes me howl in joy. Being there is even better.

So I don’t know what that was/is about. And, for you ladies out there, I don’t think it was the usual suspect (though it could be an accomplice...)

For now, I’ll just move forward and try to keep a dry eye while I write out my recipe for that amazing chili I made. The idea to use andouille instead of my standard pulled pork or shredded beef was inspired.

Here's what you need:

1 pound of cured andouille sausage (about three links)
1 large onion, chopped
1 Hungarian wax pepper, chopped
1 cherry bomb pepper, chopped
2 pimiento peppers, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1 32 oz. jar of tomato juice
1 cup of chicken stock
About 2 cups of water; more as needed
1 1/2 tablespoons of chili powder
1 1/2 teaspoons of cumin
1 teaspoon of sweet paprika
1 teaspoon of Aleppo pepper
1 can of black beans, rinsed
1 can of pinto beans, rinsed
1 can of petite diced tomatoes
Kosher or sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1/8 cup of red wine
Big splash of balsamic vinegar

Here's what to do:

Remove the sausage from the casings and crumble into a skillet. It's already cooked, but sauteing it brings out the flavor and also crispifies it nicely. Add the onion, peppers, and garlic and cook on medium until vegetables are soft.

Transfer this mixture to a large saucepot and add the next 10 ingredients. Stir and simmer for about 1½-2 hours, stirring regularly and adding water to keep it liquefied.

Time to taste! At this point, I almost always find it wanting something, and add salt and pepper, plus a little red wine and balsamic vinegar. Example amounts are listed above.

Cook for another 20-30 minutes and serve. A little queso fresco makes a nice add.

 Oh, and that's what this was, by the way.
       

I needed that.

I am struggling. I read this today and I felt better. I don't want others to feel how I feel & yet is is nice know I am not alone. Life is like this in more ways than one. 

Vanity Fair Play.

I first learned about Irshad Manji when she guest starred on Real Time with Bill Maher. I find her to be truly extraordinary, and while I struggle personally to understand a desire to reform a (any) religion rather than abandon it, I recognize and admire her fortitude.

I follow her posts, and one this morning stuck with me most of the day. Here it is. And, within this story, another story that also moved me.

Beauty is as beauty does, eh?

P.S. I was going to write about that photo, but this mattered more to me today. So, tomorrow...