Domestic Engineer Guy

Restaurant Follies

2010-09-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

In the introduction to my book Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering, I wrote, “Friends often wondered, with all of my restaurant knowledge, why I didn’t open a restaurant. Usually my response was laughter. I knew full well how hard restaurant owners and chef-owners worked, nearly 24/7. Basil has to be in your bloodstream to a bring a restaurant to life and keep it on life support. The good ones are magical. Cooking is one of the creative arts. I love basil, but it is not in my bloodstream.”

That was never a tough decision for me. And I have never second-guessed myself—at least on that decision. Reading Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential makes me feel like a freaking oracle. It has been out a while (2000) and was a surprise best-seller, especially to the author. He wrote the book for fellow chefs, thinking it too much of an inside treatise for us innocents who patronize restaurants.

A month ago I had purchased his latest work, Medium Raw, but put it down after a few chapters and bought his first best-seller. I’m glad I did and recommend it to all foodies or foodie wannabees. Though, even for foodies it is often a language foreign.

He entitles his chapter on restaurant ownership, “Owner’s Syndrome and Other Medical Anomalies.” In it he writes, “Inarguably, a successful restaurant demands that you live on the premises for the first few years, working seventeen-hour days, with total involvement in every aspect of a complicated, cruel and very fickle trade. You must be fluent in not only Spanish but the Kabbala-like* intricacies of health codes, tax law, fire department regulations, environmental protection laws, building code, occupational safety and health regs, fair hiring practices, zoning, insurance, the vagaries and back-alley back-scratching of liquor licenses, the netherworld of trash removal, linen, and grease disposal.”

So, you own a successful dentist practice and your friends say you should open a restaurant because you give great dinner parties? Fugetaboutit. Invest in a chain of tattoo-removal shops.

* He meant Kabbalah, a Jewish term mostly meaning mystical. So Kabbala-like means mystical-like intricacies.

Blowhards

2010-08-31T14:30:00.000-07:00

I know, you are thinking that blowhards and blogs go together.

PJ loves hardboiled eggs. I prefer my eggs scrambled and blended with all manner of foodstuffs. Eggs scrambled are like casseroles, you just add whatever is in the refrigerator.

Boiling eggs is pretty simple. It’s the peeling that is tedious at best.

I recently saw a video about an egg-peeling shortcut. A guy created it, of course.

Place 3-4 eggs in a saucepan high enough so that eggs are fully submerged. That would be after you add water. Then add a teaspoon of baking soda. Boil for 10-12 minutes. In another bowl prepare an ice bath. That would be ice cubes and water. When the eggs are done put them in the ice bath for about 4-5 minutes. The shell should feel cool to the touch. Crack an egg at both ends and remove up to an inch in diameter of egg shell from each end. Place one end to the lips and blow. This is where being a blowhard comes in handy—you have to really blow hard—probably more than once. The egg will pop out of the other end. Rinse, repeat.

Gals, you may need a guy for this. We are much better blowhards.

This actually worked, much to my surprise. Though, I would say that the egg with the cooled shell but still warm core actually peels pretty easily. It is when both are cold that peeling tests one’s patience.

Just to prove that I am not a blowhard, I’m going to end this posting now.

Bittersweet Day

2010-08-29T12:53:00.000-07:00

Today is the 5th Anniversary of Katrina trashing New Orleans, a bittersweet time. Read the attached column I wrote about my last visit in November, 2008 to understand why.

To New Orleans, With Love

I went because I had to. I do not recall it being a choice.

During nine New Orleans’ trips since January 2006, I have helped gut sixteen homes, build eight Habitat for Humanity homes and a playground, recruited 34 friends (many of whom returned up to four times), and helped launch another NGO (non-governmental organization) which has to date hosted another 3,000 volunteers.

However, I am but one of many who contributed as much, and more. A recent estimate put the number of volunteers at two million. A senior Habitat official estimated that 700,000 workdays have been donated to Habitat.

Most of my trips were linked with the St. Charles Avenue Presbyterian Churches’ RHINO (Rebuilding Hope in New Orleans) program.

Logansport high school classmates and fellow Up With People alums, joined me on my swan song trip.

Vivid memories abound. I have stood in horror upon entering my first ravaged home – then I smashed windows just to breathe. Two days later the gutted, reborn home was but a skeleton of its former self, its moldy, toxic, rotting core carted off by trolling garbage trucks to some unknown heap.

I have seen the endless ghost streets and blue tarps on roofs, sailboats on streets, and battered homes, some swept across streets and onto cars or other homes. I have winced at the heights of flood water lines stained onto homes, and the National Guard’s spray-painted cryptic survey summaries on doors. I witnessed the onset of refrigerator wasteland, FEMA-trailer towns, and trailer-lined streets.

I have left behind 20 contaminated, ripped, or paint-splattered jeans and shirts, and returned home four times with Katrina cough.

I am still challenged by friends and acquaintances perplexed as to why I would “waste” so much time recovering a city they view as a waste of time. My first rejoinder is always, “It is their home.”

The Times-Picayune ran a weekly series entitled “The Kindness of Strangers.” That series featured me one week, a pleasant surprise.

I have breakfasted at Carmellia Grill and Café Rose Nicaud, lunched at Willie Mae’s and Crabby Jacks, and supped at Galatoires, Emeril’s NOLA, Redfish Grill and Jacque-Imos. I have slid down dozens of Acme’s fresh oysters, and downed adult beverages at O’Briens and Ernie K-Doe’s Mother-in-Law Lounge.

I have ridden the circuit of the rickety, rejuvenated St. Charles trolley line, toe-tapped to Preservation Hall jazz, zipped around to Zydeco at the Rock N’ Bowl, and sipped wine in The Columns’ parlor as guitarist John Rankin strummed. Mardi Gras beads hang next to my home office computer.

I have drooled over countless columned St. Charles Ave. mansions, and stayed up to watch a phalanx of police clear and clean out Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras’ witching hour.

There is something about the crescent city. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Yes, there is the contextual, textural, rainbow history, joie de vivre, food, smells, and the jazzy live-in-the-moment rhythm. It is more, whatever it is. Maybe it is nurtured by a repressed sense that it all could be gone in a flash (or a flood), and Orleanians are driven to cram as much as possible into each day. Sort of like a Po-Boy sandwich with everything. Living in earthquake and fire-central Southern California, who am I to criticize or psychoanalyze?

New Orleans may not channel the Las Vegas slogan “What happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas”, but it’s close.

She can be an exasperating city to navigate, even over three years since Katrina. I still cursed at missing street and one-way signs, stop-and-go traffic behind late Friday trash collection, and trying to decipher the French Quarter traffic grid. And what’s with all of the potholes? I would think that the rental car companies would be suing for axle abuse.

I have revisited gutted homes and fought my negativity upon seeing them mostly as we left them two years ago. Was it for naught? Too often the road home (and The Road Home Program) is potholed with good intentions, along with an intimidating bureaucratic maze. I try to remember that each home is a story. I do not know the stories. I wish I did.

Yet, the heart soars when driving around Musicians’ Village, greeting the new owner of a home I helped build in RHINO’s Ferry Place project, or seeing Gertrude LeBlanc in her new digs just across the canal in the Lower Ninth Ward. Her new home sits in the midst of homes sponsored by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s Make it Right 9 Foundation.

Orleanians say without hesitation that the volunteers saved the city, not the local, state, or federal governments. As a candidate, President-elect Obama promised New Orleans Category 5 protection. I doubt that much is necessary but I do fear the current Category 3 fortification is not enough.

Now it is time to go. New Orleans can keep the clothes.

I will return, whether for Jazz Fest, or a culinary tour. You now have a piece of my heart, New Orleans, and I don’t know how to quit you.

Keith Frohreich, November 2008

Shell-shocked Fish

2010-08-29T12:44:00.000-07:00

PJ has a shellfish allergy. She doesn’t get violently sick and thrash around on the floor, but a bathroom had better be nearby.

Hence, I am depraved because I am deprived. Not really, I just like using a favorite line from West Side Story.

Shellfish does not cross the threshold of our home, until PJ leaves. Currently she is on a multi-day trip to visit her folks and sister in another time zone. The first day she was gone I trekked to Santa Monica Seafood in Newport Beach. (No, I do not know if there is a Newport Beach Seafood in Santa Monica.)

I bought mahi mahi, petrole sole, red snapper, trout and yellowfin tuna, all fish PJ can process without a trip to the bathroom. I also bought thirty shrimp and two dozen little neck clams. My taste buds were already practicing a jig in anticipation.

That first night I found an accessible recipe for garlic shrimp; minced garlic, olive oil, dry sherry, parsley, red pepper flakes and salt. First I faced the tedious task of shelling and deveining. I’m not sure what the big deal is about deveining, they looked pretty wimpy and harmless, but I generally follow recipe directions. The next time I’m going to pay extra for a professional deveiner. There’s a resume enhancer for you.

The next night I purged the clams of impurities (excrement) and created a hot tub of diced tomatoes, chopped shallots, minced garlic, chopped basil, water and cream. The clams got pretty steamed about it. (Sorry, I simply must jump on the easy ones.) But the clams got over it, didn’t stay clammed up, and all opened up on cue.

My taste buds finally got to do that jig they had previously anticipated. I even slurped up the entire aromatic and delectable broth. Yes, there were major slurping sounds but not so loud as to bother the neighbors. In case you think that was overdoing it, notice I never said that I bought a baguette of sourdough to sop up the broth. That would have added about 1000 carbs.

I was tempted.

Turnip Bowling

2010-07-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

In our ongoing effort to manage carbs and our weights I have been using more turnips lately. At one time I considered turnips as one of my anti-guy foods. Then I found a Thomas Keller Roast Chicken with Root Vegetables recipe that uses them along with carrots, yellow onion, leeks, rutabagas, garlic, thyme and small red-skinned potatoes.

Turnips are low in carbs, potatoes are not. So I eliminated the potatoes and used more turnips. Rutabaga availability is hit and miss at my supermarket. (Extra foodie points are given for those who can tell the difference between turnips and rutabagas.) The roasted chicken juices, along with the garlic, thyme, onion cousins, olive oil, salt and pepper, layer on plenty of flavor to an otherwise pretty boring vegetable like turnips.

Another favorite, roasted vegetables with pesto, calls for fingerlings, which we love. Duh, it is still potatoes. So I now substitute turnips for the fingerlings with that recipe. Cheaper, too. The pesto peaks the flavor in this dish. This is not your traditional pesto recipe—no basil. No matter, I add some anyway but not the usual amount.

Last week, while vegetable gathering, I selected several turnips. First I had to wait for the sprinkler system to run. For you supermarket shoppers who know vegetables, they are always stacked neatly. I pay no mind to that and more often than not pick from the middle of the stack knowing what might ensue. Sure enough several turnips went tumbling. It was one of my better turnip bowling results. One rolled at least fifteen feet. Fortunately there were no small children in its path. These days they are safe and secure in the new SUV shopping carts—the ones so large that moms have to go outside just to turn around.

A Match Not Found On Match.com

2010-06-16T10:24:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I roasted turkey breasts on the barbecue and added wood chips for some smoky flavoring. I made enough so we could eat as leftovers for lunch for several days—the turkey, not the chips.

In my endless quest to find more excuses to eat blueberries I made a blueberry sauce two days ago, uncertain as to how I would use it. We had banished ice cream from our house weeks ago, a traditional calorie-loading treat. We have learned that there is no weight loss without pain.

Today, staring at the open refrigerator I noted the turkey breasts but wanted to add something. The blueberry sauce sat next to the turkey breasts. Hummmm…I wondered.

The match worked, combining the smokiness of the turkey breast with the sweetness of the blueberry sauce.

Friday night I will throw some pork tenderloins on the barbecue and pair them with what’s left of the blueberry sauce.

There are lots of recipes for blueberry sauce. Just enter the term in the search box at foodnetwork.com.

Lettuce Lessons

2010-06-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

With the all-too-frequent packaged lettuces scares lately, I’ve made some changes.

In my book I advised vigilant shopping when buying packaged lettuce such as, make sure the expiration date is at least five days from purchase, and to not wait that long and use it within 1-3 days of purchase.

Sometimes you can simply see the lettuce turning dark in a bag that says it has several days of use left. Use your eyes. They don’t lie.

Now I only buy unpackaged lettuce, even if there are no dates stamped on the leaves—with one exception, arugula. I don’t know where to find fresh arugula when my farmer’s market doesn’t sell it. I like to mix arugula in with other kinds of greens and for a favorite side dish, a watermelon-arugula-toasted pine nuts-feta cheese crumbles-herb salad. I can’t remember the last time I bought iceberg—too many other interesting flavors and colors. Iceberg is the white bread of lettuces.

The lettuces we buy are washed, spun, and laid out on paper towels to dry. After an hour I use more paper towels to soak up any obvious moisture, layer them between more paper towels, roll up, bag and finally store in the refrigerator. Still, we use or toss the lettuce within five days. Costco is going to name a store after me for my multiple uses of their Kirkland paper towel brand.

Lately I have added Caesar Salad to the menu options, and made-from-scratch dressing. Instead of croutons I make my killer onions rings, quarter them and mix as the final step. None of that canned French’s French Fried Onions for me*. Romaine never tasted so good.

PJ is not a big fan of spinach. We are still on speaking terms. But she is fine with a recipe for a spinach and pine nut pesto that we use to coat skinless chicken breasts. We bake them first.

So, if you ever let us entertain you, be assured we are looking out for you when we serve a salad.

*You won’t be thrown into the C.I.A (Culinary Institute of America) jail if you cheat and use the canned version.

Fridge Cleaning

2010-06-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

I like cleaning the refrigerator about as often as I have a root canal.

You know it’s time to clean the fridge when:

· Some “Use By” dates are from 2007

· You need to use a sharp knife to dislodge some jars

· You could supply your local high school’s science labs with cultures.

A PJ mishap forced the issue. While re-filling her water glass in the middle of the night she spilled most of the chilled container, half of it onto the floor, and the other half throughout the bottom half of the fridge. Of course, she only wiped up the floor, leaving the fridge clean-up to me. Her rationale was that since I was the cook, she should leave such food-related issues to me.

As is my wont now and then — don’t put off today what you can put off longer— I put off the clean-up. Two days later I noticed that the lettuce bag was compromised. Wet lettuce in the fridge is not an optimum sanitary food condition.

Actually a few weeks ago I had purged the fridge of out-dated containers. Fortunately I hadn’t been using those anyway. A good cook’s rule would be to occasionally forage around in recesses of the fridge. Not sure why I thought I needed three large bottles of store-bought barbecue sauce, since I began making sauces and rubs from scratch a couple of years ago.

A good indicator of when to probe the recesses is that when you open the door, the stuff closest to the door falls out. That can get pretty messy if they are glass containers and you have kitchen tiling.

Something akin to finding a dead rat (or several) when you clean the garage, a package of dill had climbed out of the veggie/lettuce drawers and lay hidden in the back. It’s “Use By” date was 12/30/2008. Since that is a bit old for fresh dill, I tossed it.

I think that when it is time to clean the fridge again, I’ll buy a new one.

Transitions

2010-05-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

Time to blog again. Sorry for the absence. It was transition time. PJ retired recently and a new chapter began.

Even though we have been married forever it seems, when togetherness becomes defined as 24/7, it takes some adjusting. The rhythms of the day form a new dance. It has all been mostly good, but change nonetheless.

I temporarily lost my writing voice.

Now it’s back. The good news is that change always fuels new material. This blog will reflect that now and then.

My domestic engineering duties continue albeit with some redistribution of chores. PJ has taken back the laundry. I fought it for all of two seconds. But I have picked up more cleaning duties after we cut back the housecleaners to once a month—a nod to our new retirement reduced cash flow reality.

I am now in the market for a John Deere riding vacuum cleaner.

A Cold Reality

2010-03-13T12:31:00.000-08:00

I am currently under the weather with the cold crud. (Under the weather—another “where did that come from?” term.)

Bad news for domestic engineer guys—if you still board a plane now and then, you will be more susceptible to colds. At least I am.

I am no disease wonk but I suspect that it has something to do with immunities. The more we build them up, the more resistant we are. Going to work every day and hanging with other upright mammals expectorating airborne germs builds resistance over time. DEG’s hang out with their dog during the day and unless you are exchanging saliva regularly with Fido you are probably pretty safe.

Board a plane and all bets are off, especially if exchanging saliva. I haven’t kept track but Id’ wager that I’m batting 500 over the last 7-8 years, meaning I have come down with a cold on half of my plane trips. My memory is faulty but I’m pretty sure I never exchanged saliva with anyone other than PJ. This is really a bummer, especially in the summer, if you are exposed to enough germs on the first flight of the vacation.

This time I caught it on a return flight from Minneapolis.

I have no sage suggestions for prevention (Airborne has proven ineffective) but I am ready to wear a surgical mask on future flights. Not your everyday accessory, but at my age why should I care? A healthy vacation matters more.

Pesto Me

2010-03-09T10:30:00.000-08:00

In a November 2009 blog about turkey salad pesto sandwiches I gave you the basic recipe for fresh pesto. I once bought some pesto in jar at my supermarket—never again. Whatever preservatives they add alters the flavor too much. Besides, pesto is so easy to make.

Last night I prepared some lamb shoulder chops and served them with mint-basil pesto. Basically, instead of two cups of basil you use one cup each of basil and mint leaves, toasted walnuts instead of pine nuts, add 2 tablespoons of lemon juice, and reduce the parmesan portion to 3-4 tablespoons. This could be served with any cut of lamb.

Tonight I am preparing chicken breasts and topping them with spinach and pine nut pesto. Instead of basil I will use 2 cups of spinach leaves, pine nuts, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, 1-2 teaspoons of grated lemon peel, and a third cup of parmesan. I’ll leave out the garlic.

Another variation for lamb is walnut and mint pesto with one cup of mint leaves and one cup of parsley leaves, walnuts, lemon juice, and garlic.

I haven’t tried this next one yet but will soon—2 cups basil leaves, 1 cup parsley, 1 tablespoon each of fresh thyme, rosemary and tarragon, ¼ cup of walnuts, and garlic.

All of these pesto recipes use about 1 teaspoon of salt, ½ teaspoon of pepper, and a third to ½ cup of olive oil.

You simply put all of the ingredients (except the oil) into a food processor, turn it on and slowly add the olive oil. Voila, fresh pesto. Pesto can be made ahead and stored in the refrigerator. To keep the pesto from turning a dark green, tear off a small piece of cling wrap and press it down directly over the pesto. It will keep its fresh green tint. I don’t like using cling wrap since it clings to everything before it submits to covering a container. Cling wrap is an emotional dwarf.

The basic pesto recipe is a great sandwich spread. Substitute for mayo—if you’re being good. I cheat and put pesto on one slice and mayo on the other.

Perfect Onion Rings

2010-02-28T13:23:00.000-08:00

We celebrated our son’s birthday last night. As is our tradition the honoree picks the menu. I knew onion rings would be one of the choices.

I pretty much have this down to a science but last night I sliced them as thin as possible without using a mandoline (besides, I play it poorly), or slicing any fingers. I used my small fan to blow the sulfuric fumes into the family room, interrupting Olympics watching and appetizer consumption.

I use mostly an Emeril recipe. I referred to this in an earlier January post so I thought I'd share it.

2 large onions sliced very thin, thinner than 1/8 inch

2 cups buttermilk

¼ cup hot sauce, any brand is fine

4 tablespoons Emeril’s Essence

2 cups flour

Candy thermometer

Canola oil (you can also use vegetable or peanut oil)

Mix the buttermilk, hot sauce and one tablespoon of Essence in a bowl.

Place the onions is a 9 by 13 inch pan or baking dish

Pour the buttermilk mixture over the onions, cover with foil and put in refrigerator for at least one hour.

Mix the flour and two tablespoons of Essence in a separate bowl.

Heat the oil in a tall stovetop pan to at least 360 degrees.

Working in batches, thoroughly coat onions in flour mixture and fry for about three minutes. Place each batch on paper towels. Season each batch with more Essence.

Keep a knife handy to fend off errant hands sneaking samples before dinner.

Filets were also on the menu last night. Crisp, thin, deep-fried onion rings are extraordinary on filets.

There are rarely leftovers but once when there were some I used a Ziploc and refrigerated them. Two days later I crisped them up in the oven. Almost as good as freshly fried.

If you have a deep fryer, the kind shown on cooking shows, go for it. I have been able to do French fries and onion rings in my tall stovetop pan.

Important safety tip—do not dispose of or strain the oil back into the container shortly after use. Something bad will happen. Wait until the next morning.

Still working on perfect French fries.

"It's Nice to See You Again, Oprah"

2010-02-24T10:48:00.000-08:00

At the San Francisco Writer’s Conference two years ago one of the speakers suggested that the seven most powerful words in publishing were, “It’s nice to see you again, Oprah.” Too true unless your name is Sarah Palin.

At least I can say that I wrote my book.

I could count on one hand the number of authors who don’t fantasize sitting next to Oprah during one of her shows. I am no different. I also know that there are better odds for world peace than Oprah asking me to read my shortest chapter, “A Short History of Guys and the Kitchen.”

Will I send her show my book? Absolutely. Something about nothing ventured.

I was commiserating with a fellow self-published author yesterday (and fellow San Francisco Writer’s Conference attendee) over the daunting odds of selling books in today’s economy and during a downward spiral of people-who-read-books. No bloodletting but massive wringing of hands and primal groans. We are both casting about trying tactics that would have been unheard of even ten years ago.

My next book may be entitled Rogue Marketing for the Self-Published. But it would only see the light of day if I sell enough books to beat those daunting odds. At least those are better odds than appearing on Oprah.

Review Just In

2010-02-19T14:38:00.000-08:00

I am expecting two reviews from book review services. The first one is in, from Reader Views.

Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering

Reviewed by William Phenn for Reader Views (02/10)

"This funny 269-page book covers every aspect of the stay-at-home man. The man, who has been laid off, fired, phased out or just plain quit his job and is now the homemaker. This book may also apply to the guy whose wife makes twice the money he makes, even when he is working. So rather than put her into a bigger tax bracket, he elects to stay home.

Conveniently broken down into forty exciting chapters, the book can be quickly referenced for answers to any domestic situation and more. From helpful hints on coping with the tragic layoff, to relaxing after dinner and enjoying a fine cigar, “Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering” is funny and informative. Since I enjoy cooking, I especially liked, “Recipes for Success.” This section, along with others like, “You’ve Been Jobbed, Separation Anxieties and Adjusting More Than Attitude,” were chapters I could sympathize with. Another favorite was, “BS.” This was the basic cooking chapter that I seriously needed to pay close attention to. “Blanching, Browning Meat and Cooking Steaks,” were just some of the topics covered that I needed to learn more about. “Channeling Your Handy-Manly Side” was still another chapter that I read with due diligence. Since my work in a past life was Automotive Engineering, I was not used to fixing things around the house, I left that to the experts - plumbers did not do engineering and I did not do plumbing.

The book is funny to say the least - a laugh on every page would be more like it. I have high hopes for this very funny volume of domestic duty. It is an easy read, keeps your attention and is very well written. The graphics are hilarious, they complement the book nicely and are placed at good strategic locations.

I highly recommend “Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering” by Keith Frohreich to all adults no matter what their situation. I say that because you can never tell when the inevitable can happen, “no one ever plans for it.” I gave it one of my highest ratings of an A and I would like to see every man in America read it because it makes sense while tickling your funny bone."

Plumping Up With Polenta

2010-02-19T09:02:00.000-08:00

One of my daily routines is to check in with Mark Bittman’s blog (bitten.blogs.nytimes.com/). In keeping with his “keep it simple” casual cooking style he recently did a video about a polenta dish.

I watched it thinking I might be too hard-headed about such dishes like polenta, couscous and hummus. Hummus is not Hummer discharge, but pulverized chickpeas (garbanzo beans). As I write in my book, Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering, guys don’t do couscous or hummus. I was still reserving judgment about polenta.

Polenta is basically a mush made from cornmeal. Parmesan is frequently added. Bittman also added some Italian sausage, suggesting that polenta is very user-friendly. I rarely use cornmeal except for a blended coating with flour for a catfish recipe.

Part of my resistance to dishes like rice, polenta, couscous and hummus stems from a campaign to significantly reduce carbs consumption. PJ and I are not Atkins’ groupies, but Americans’ diets had gotten way out of whack with carb loading. Especially since most Americans don’t run marathons. Even today the infamous food pyramid suggests 300 grams of carb intake per day. Three hundred! Pack that on your thighs and tote it.

Most guys, if wanting the comfort of carbs, will do a half-gainer into a vat of garlicky, buttery mashed potatoes. And none of this girly couscous, hummus, polenta mush.

So with a wary eye I reviewed the cornmeal package. One quarter cup contains 100 calories and 24 grams of carbs. The dietary fiber is less than one gram. There is some dispute about whether cornmeal qualifies as a whole-grain, something PJ and I need to consume more of.

After reviewing the other whole-grain candidates: whole wheat bread, whole wheat pasta, whole wheat flour, rolled oats (too much work because after you buy oats you have to drive your car over them), and popcorn, we going with the popcorn since it also fulfills another food group—guilty pleasures. But only after we soak it in butter or live on the edge by shaving some parmesan over it.

Canning Cans

2010-02-18T16:21:00.000-08:00

Generally I try to avoid foodstuffs that come in a can. Fresh is always best. That said, it is pretty unavoidable.

The downside of using less canned goods is that I often forget that they are there. Yesterday PJ called late in the day to inform me that she was coming down with a bad cold. She wondered if we had any chicken soup in stock—as in the cupboard. I said yes, knowing that we had some tucked in and around the other cans.

After hanging up I researched the situation. Yes, there were two cans. Something made me look at the bottoms. (Generally guys are notorious bottom watchers.) Both had “use by” dates that probably would have made PJ’s cold seem like a minor itch. A more appropriate phrasing should be, “This will expire you if you don’t use by ____.” Now that these bottoms had my attention I began looking at all of them.

Full disclosure—awareness of canning dates had simply not stayed in any part of my memory depot. That train had left station.

Inventory completed, I threw out fourteen cans including vegetable soup, vegetable and beef broth, tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, beef gravy, chicken noodle soup, cream of chicken soup (the texture of hard jello) and fancy crabmeat still left over from my crab cakes recipe creation five years earlier.

Not all canners put a “use by” or any sort of date on their cans, or if they do it is in code. I probably should toss them all.

Supermarket marketers love to temp us with two-for-ones or buying in larger quantities to “save money.” The problem is that you use one or two cans and the rest sit there, for years.

From now on I will buy as needed.

Today PJ took a sick day and once again asked about chicken and vegetable soup. Instead, I found a vegetable soup recipe on Food Network, adapted it, and tossed in a 12-ounce can of chicken breast, well within the date. I didn’t have any chicken breasts thawed.

Next up—it is time for my annual refrigerator cleaning. Yes, I said annual. Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. I’m pretty sure there are some cultures camped in there that would qualify as WMDs.

Following Directions

2010-02-12T10:17:00.000-08:00

Over my birthday weekend, both PJ and I were guilty of abusing directions.

PJ volunteered to bake shortcake from scratch. I handed her my shortcake recipe, a Mark Bittman concoction. Most shortcake recipes have two degrees of separation between them.

PJ soldiered forth following the recipe religiously including making a portion much larger than our needs. Since she is math-challenged I felt it best to do it that way even if it meant tossing out the leftovers.

When it came time to portion the batter on the baking pan PJ decided to dollop out five sizeable portions so that our strawberry shortcake treat could be a double-deckers. We don’t do strawberry shortcake often but when we do we make a dessert mountain.

Once in the oven I checked it as it neared its suggested cooking time. Most of the dough was still quite soft and uncooked. I grabbed the recipe. Aha, it suggested using a heaping tablespoon to portion twelve cakes. I pulled the pan from the oven and scooped them onto another pan since they were beginning to char on the bottom. I put them back in the oven at a slightly reduced temperature and baked for another 7-8 minutes. Once cooled, I scrapped the charred bottoms.

Shortcake salvaged. Dessert was a triumph.

Yours truly failed to read the Emeril recipe steps for leg of lamb. I thought I had selected it for its simplicity, though Emeril often uses more ingredients than the words in this blog. This time I didn’t care since on special occasions I spend more time. Duh, the recipe called for marinating the lamb for at least eight hours. This was problematic since I began preparing the rub around 4 PM. So I put the coated leg in the refrigerator at 4:30 and begin giving it deep-tissue massages. That was one relaxed leg of lamb.

I put it in the oven at 6 PM and made another mistake. Trying to make up time because I wanted to eat no later than 7:30, I increased the oven temperature from 400 degrees to 425 degrees. Then I failed to use the meat thermometer until 75 minutes later (for the math-challenged that is one hour and fifteen minutes.) By then the meat was nearly well-done, and with the suggested cooling time of 15 minutes (for you cooking cretins, the meat continues to cook), it was completely well-done by serving time. Our family likes our meat medium-rare. Still tasty, but disappointing.

The lesson is this—unless you are a chef, follow directions, at least the first time. This requires reading and comprehension. Pretty sure you and I had that course in high school.

Candidly, I believe cooking should be a required course in high school, and offered right after that reading and comprehension one.

Birthday Bashing

2010-02-05T10:38:00.000-08:00

This weekend is my birthday weekend, though not my actual birthday. (DEG’s age will not be divulged.) As is our custom, when a birthday falls on a weekday we celebrate on the closest weekend.

Domestic Engineer Guys don’t get their birthday weekend off; unless you just won the lottery. If that were true you could hang up your apron and tool belt and hire a live-in chef and housekeeper.

Each year PJ gets to ask THE question: “What would you like to cook for yourself on your birthday?”

Since Friday is procurement day I just finished my menu planning.

Tonight is New York steaks with garlic, butter and thyme, roasted asparagus with dill hollandaise sauce, and fried onion rings. No dessert. The onion ring recipe is compliments of Emeril. You can find it on foodnetwork.com.

Saturday is pesto, diced romas and pancetta on toasted bread (quartered), herb-encrusted roast leg of lamb with garlic roasted fingerling potatoes, pan-roasted broccoli with sliced almonds and garlic, and strawberry shortcake. The pesto is made from scratch, natch.

Sunday is roast chicken with root vegetables. The vegetable lineup includes leeks, carrots, red-skinned potatoes, rutabagas and turnips. They are all roasted together with the whole chicken—a meal in a roasting pan. That vegetable combo is amazing. I also just like saying, rutabaga. It’s a Thomas Keller recipe.

One of my stops today will be at the Wine Exchange in Orange, the best value wine merchant in SoCal. It will be a syrah Saturday, any which way you spell it.

The toasted bread for the Saturday night appetizer is not a canapé. You have to remove the crust to earn that snooty label. Guys don’t do canapés, or the stilted conversation that goes with them.

PJ has volunteered to make the shortcake from scratch. We already have fresh strawberries here in SoCal. There is a roadside stand one mile from our house.

The one birthday benefit coming my way is a weekend without KP. There is also a one in four chance that our son will do KP one night. If so, I may take a picture for posterity.

A Good Day

2010-02-02T16:30:00.000-08:00

I know that many of you are sleeping restlessly at night pondering the question, “What does a domestic engineer guy do during the day?”

There are some days when at day’s end I have wondered the same. But yesterday was a good day.

6:30 Coffee.

6:45 Carried on semi-awake conversation with chirpy PJ and shipped her off to work with hug.

7:00 LA Times Crossword.

7:30 Browsed favorite Internet web sites and responded to emails. (I don't want to hear from anyone who did the crossword in fifteen minutes.)

8:30 Breakfast.

9:00 Loaded dishwasher (breakfast plus last night’s dinner dishes).

9:30 Booked a Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering advertising campaign, and on-air interview with Indiana hometown radio station.

10:00 Went to post office to mail book to on-air talent who will conduct the interview.

10:30 LA Fitness workout—500 calories burnt.

12:30 Shower.

1:00 Light lunch—leftover Pur-ty Coleslaw with Walnuts (recipe from book).

1:15 Loaded in first laundry load.

1:30 Began paying bills

2:00 Second laundry load, hung up first load.

2:30 Finished bill paying.

3:00 Last laundry load, hung up second load.

3:15 Napped.

3:45 Hung up last load.

4:00 Began drafting this blog.

5:00 Caught up on national news and had a cocktail.

6:00 Fixed dinner.

7:00 Loaded dinner dishes and ran dishwasher.

7:30 Final email check.

8:00 Shut down brain. Don’t need it anyway for network TV programming.

Pretty exciting, huh?

Tomorrow I am thinking of counting the new sprouts on the rose bushes.

Not So Rosy Roses

2010-01-26T08:55:00.000-08:00

We have seven rose bushes. They are always a work in progress. I don’t know whether it is because my thumb never turned green from those childhood years on the Indiana farm, seven is an unlucky number, or our soil sucks.

I’m going with the soil.

I’d transplant them but there really isn’t another appropriate space on our small hillside parcel. PJ has become a rose bush groupie so I toil regularly with all manner of nurturing. She can be such a nudge.

At dinner the other night with friends whose green thumbs stick out like neon, they mentioned the magic word—manure.

Manure and I go way back. That is where I attained my spreading-manure skills. It took me several years to wash it off me when I left that farm. I’m pretty sure that is why I was so dating-challenged.

It seems an anathema that manure and sweet smelling roses would be a match, but apparently manure qualifies as aromatherapy for rose bushes. Still, I worried that using it would bring petitions from the neighborhood.

Yesterday, while the soil was still moist from last week’s El Nino temper tantrums, I mulched* the manure in and around the rose bushes. I dug out enough dirt so I could bury most of the manure and minimize the stench. I’ll get back to you on that.

If this doesn’t work I’m going to gird them with sand bags. I try to stay one step ahead of PJ. See previous two posts.

While I was at it I replanted a stunted lemon tree to a more soil-friendly area, and dug out a sickly shrub near out front door and replaced it with a dwarf palm. There was enough manure left over to treat (manure is a treat?) our lime tree and three under-performing bougainvilleas.

When I planted our lime tree several years ago I did not know they had such prickly personalities. Anytime I get within five feet it draws blood from somewhere on my body, even if wearing gloves. Yesterday it was my torso.

I burnt the manure-stained clothes.

*Yes I know; I made a verb out of a noun. I’ll do anything for alliteration.

Muddy and Morose

2010-01-22T10:32:00.000-08:00

For the record, six days of rain is enough. One-two, fine. Six, no.

Yes, we are spoiled in SoCal. This week of deluges brings our season total to a sopping sum of ten inches, more than double the norm. I believe they issued a high surf advisory for downtown Los Angeles. The season is officially July 1 to June 30, but most years ninety-plus percent moisturizes us January-March.

But here's the rub, PJ wants to retire in the Northwest, you know that part of the country where residents have to grow webfeet. (Can you surf the web better with webfeet?) In doing some city-by-city research on Google, the lowest annual rainfall I have found is thirty-five inches. Thirty-five inches is the one-year record rainfall for SoCal since I moved here forty years ago. I remember that year, a massive El Nino temper tantrum. Cranky was my middle name.

Move inland, you say? Not an option. PJ's first criteria is to live within an hour of the water, and that doesn't mean a river.

After this week I don't need a flu shot, I need a shot of Norman Vincent Peale. That, or watching the entire collection of Victor Borge tapes.

Score near the end of the fourth quarter, Storms 5, Sun 1.

The sump pump did its duty. Oh yes, despite wallowing in the mud securing trashcan liners on the vulnerable side of the house, PJ bought twenty sand bags anyway. Twenty! Our Honda Hybrid's butt was dragging when she pulled into the driveway. So guess who got to wallow some more in the mud? She says she'll sleep better at night. I'm still trying to work the wrench out of my back. I could probably use someone with webfeet.

Today is foodstuffs procurement day, assuming I can make my runs without a boat. Trying a new recipe tonight found at www.thepioneerwoman.com/cooks. It is called Italian Meatball Soup. This is one of my favorite cooking websites. Seems like the perfect way to end a soggy, dreary week. I'll be speaking to PJ again by Sunday.

Raining again.

El Nino Temper Tantrums

2010-01-20T11:41:00.000-08:00

Storm Watch is more than what Southern California TV stations call Breaking News when it begins to drizzle in Ventura. Every 4-5 years we actually have major storms. Then they switch their coverage to 24/7.

I am always flummoxed to understand why the weather gods feel they have to make up for four-plus years of way-below-average rainfall in one week. But, this is the week that was. It is somewhat akin to planes in the landing pattern for LAX, storms lined up offshore waiting for their turn to make land and wreck havoc.

As of this morning, though still in the first half, the score is Storms 2, Sun 1.

Storms are problematic for our household. I dust off the sump pump and retrench one side of the house. We live in a cul de sac on a hillside (no mudslide worries). The property’s drainage system flows down our driveway to a run-off line in the cul de sac, and not via the shortest route, down the hillside twelve yards from the back of our house.

The root system from the bushes lining our thirty-yard's long driveway invaded our drainage system requiring me (during major storms) to sink a sump pump into the backyard drain culvert and extend a garden hose to the head of the driveway. Replacing that drainage system is currently #6 on a long list of expensive repairs and upgrades. After this week it may climb up the chart to #2.

The east side of the house is a bigger issue, mostly because our living room floor is the only part of the house below ground level. The property next door sits on a slightly higher elevation and is separated by a five-foot brick wall. The land between that wall and our house slopes down to a narrow passageway that is not paved but has stepping-stones.

Five years ago while on vacation in Europe (during the time of the tsunami) we had another El Nino outburst. There was so much rainfall over a short period that the water sat stagnant beside our house for several days. Upon returning home our living room rug was sopping. Cha-ching.

Now I trench every fall. Plus I piled dirt against the outside wall so that any water flows down, and away in the trench.

Bride PJ has a PhD in worrying. Watching the water flowing past the outside wall isn’t enough. She has determined that we need sandbags, something on the magnitude of what beachfront homes erect to fend off crashing waves during El Nino-like storms. Finding sandbags is pretty easy. The City of Anaheim offers each homeowner ten free ones. Finding sand isn’t as simple. I’m pretty sure local law enforcement frowns on pilfering sand from the beaches.

Police officer, “Excuse me, sir, but what are you doing?

Me, “My civic duty and piling up sand bags to prevent beach erosion.”

Police officer, “Okay, as you were.”

Just to rub it in, once a year PJ reminds me that on family camping trips in waterlogged Oregon her dad dutifully got up at night in middle of downpours to trench all around the tent so that his charges could stay all snugly cozy. How chivalrous.

Brain fart time. This morning (not last night) I spread six large trashcan liners over the dirt piled against the house. No rest for domestic engineer guys. Now even more water will flow away. The ground under the bags may not soon resemble a desert but no El Nino temper tantrums will seep inside the house. I think.

PJ will probably still insist on sand bags. But when I tell her I’d have to buy a Ford F-150 just to truck them in, I think she’ll back off. I’d borrow the neighbor’s truck but they only drive theirs for the image. I have never seen them actually put anything in the truck bed.

Paving the side of the house, with a culvert, and building a retaining wall at the base of the eroding slope also moves up the to-do list—maybe to #1. Cha-ching.

Buyer Beware

2010-01-18T09:36:00.000-08:00

The meat department at my local Vons suckered me last week.

I had a new tri-tip recipe I wanted to give a whirl. I usually buy tri-tip at Costco but wasn’t willing to drive the 12-mile round trip just for one item. I had made my monthly Costco run the first week of January.

Vons (owned by Safeway) is one of those supermarket chains that bypassed USDA labeling to create their own unbranded brand—in this case Ranchers Reserve. Cute.

When they introduced this “brand” a few years ago I cornered one of the meat cutters wearing a bloodstained white apron. He was evasive about the grade of beef as it related to the USDA grades of prime, choice, select, standard, and road kill.

So I drastically cut back my Vons’ beef purchases unless I needed chuck for my pot roast recipe. With a pot roast the braising process renders beef so tender you don’t even need teeth.

Last Friday I bit on three-pound-plus tri-tip cut on sale. Big mistake.

During my Saturday night prep time I took the cut out of the package only to discover a large slab of fat hidden under the cut. By the time I finished trimming the hidden slab and some other fat, my three-pound-plus cut weighed a little less than two pounds. I had trimmed off one and one quarter pounds of fat!

I will be having a chat with another Vons’ person when I do my weekly shopping this week, only this time the manager.

If stopping by my website, click on videos and watch the one entitled “Where’s the Beef? Here’s Your Beef,”—a bit long, but lots of good meat in it about meat. The tri-tip I used in that video was purchased at Costco and didn’t need any fat trimming. So even though it was not on sale at Costco, I still paid less, pound for pound, than the Vons tri-tip cut on sale. Plus, the Costco cut was USDA Choice, not Ranchers Reverse Obese.

Book Puffery

2010-01-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

As I have written here and in a published column, self-publishing is a lot like life, one long forced march into enemy territory. I am regularly more optimistic than that, but there are days when it seems that way. It is its own slog into the unknown, especially for the uninitiated, and the odds are daunting.

So, I slog on. Call it rogue marketing. The often disheartening task is to get outside my circle (albeit it a large one) of family and friends, especially with a limited budget.

For those who are clicking on my website or blog for the first time, whether via my Facebook ad or a friend’s recommendation, welcome. I hope you take your curiosity a step further, check out the book, and buy it.

To that end I am sharing here some comments received from friends. Yes, I know, friends won’t likely pan my book. And at times, the silence can be deafening. Conversely, there are some chest-expanders. What is said often says more than something like, “I’m enjoying your book,” as much as I still savor that.

To wit:

“Hilarious but oh-so-helpful.”

“Donna (spouse) kept asking me what I was laughing about so I would stop and read her a section I had just read.”

“Keith, your book is a hoot. I hope my hubby doesn’t notice the chocolate smudges on the pages Christmas morning.”

“The wedding for dummies and ‘Mr. Fix It’ situations were just great comedy.”

Your book… “has a niche, is funny and serious, thought-provoking and more, but just enough to let me beg, write a sequel! Become the macho male Erma Bombeck.”

There is no male version of Erma, IMO. It is a label I aspire to—another daunting task.

Consumer Push-backs

2010-01-12T09:39:00.000-08:00

I was just hit with another late fee, this time by our Chevron/Texaco credit card. Suddenly it hit me—not a knockout punch, more like a whack up side my head.

Duh, dude, why do you need them? (I talk to myself a lot.)

Fair question. Gas companies take all manner of cards, Visa, Mastercard, American Express…all of which we have.

Since I still live in the Dark Ages and pay our bills with checks, I am prime meat for late fees, just one of the new credit card “gotchas.” I used to pay bills once a month. Now I pay four times a month. Whatever can go wrong, will—whether a bill mysteriously disappears (regardless of your foolproof system), or the post office suddenly takes five days to deliver instead of the usual 2-3 days.

Gas credit cards still charge gouge interest rates but we have been paying them off every month for over ten years.

Last month I missed the Chevron deadline by one day. Our thirty-five year relationship meant nothing. Gotcha! They tacked on $25.00 to the bill.

Hence the “duh” moment.

We had already cancelled our Exxon account several years ago over a similar incident. Now we are canceling Chevron/Texaco. But just to add an exclamation point we are cutting up the cards and returning them with the final payment.

We still have Shell cards. It may take a bit longer to wean our son off that last card, even though he now has a Visa card, and a debit card.

We are buying most of our gas now at Costco—routinely ten cents lower per gallon. They take American Express, as does every other pimping station.

And no, I did not misspell pumping.

We have also been Wells Fargo Bank customers for over thirty years. In yet another “push-back” move we are seriously looking into moving our checking account to a smaller, community-centered bank that loans money to small businesses.

Licking Privileges

2010-01-09T11:41:00.000-08:00

This weekend is PJ’s birthday weekend. I won’t disclose her age, especially since it is so close to mine.

Her birthday is actually on the 13^th but as is our rule we celebrate on the weekend closest to the birthday when it falls on a weekday. Since our daughter is still with us from her extended holiday visit PJ naturally chose this weekend.

This morning she asked if she could also include next weekend, and even though she is the family ATM, I held my ground and said “no.” I’ll keep you posted on how that turns out.

The birthday girl gets her pick for tonight’s menu plus lots of weekend bennies. In her case that doesn’t add up to much because I routinely handle most of the to-do lists. Remember that ATM part.

PJ chose avocado, smoked salmon, sprouts, and pesto on toasted wheat bread for the appetizer, filet-of-beef with béarnaise sauce for the main course, roasted vegetables (fingerlings, haricot verts, carrots, red onion) with pesto (in this case without the basil, and butter in addition to olive oil), and for the closer, Jack Daniels & chocolate pecan pie*. The Jack Daniels is in the pie, not the beverage you serve with it. But for you Jack lovers, got for it.

One of PJ’s regular bennies is bowl licking after I have poured or spooned out the dessert concoction just prior to baking. This pie filling includes: butter, unsweetened chocolate, eggs, sugar, corn syrup, vanilla extract, and Jack Daniels. So her first birthday treat was the bowl. Even though I made the mixture with my largest bowl she still could not put her face into the bowl. Lord knows she tried. This is one of the times when a tongue extender would come in handy**. As it was, after scooping out as much as she could with a spoon, she fell in love with her right index finger. I almost didn’t have to wash the bowl.

*If interested in any of these recipes, contact me via my website, www.domesticengineerguy.com

**I know what you’re thinking.

Pink Workout Towels

2010-01-05T16:43:00.000-08:00

I suppose it was inevitable—something going into the washer white and coming out pinkish—in this case two of my gym towels.

I had been pretty proud of my spotless record, even though all spots are not created equal (think blueberries), and some stick around forever.

I was wrapping up the holidays, unraveling the lights and décor inside and out, waltzing the tree to the driveway (the tree led), and laundering the colorful placemats and napkins. In my calorie-laden fog I failed to notice two workout towels mixed in with the colors of Benetton. Those table settings are still new enough that they were not done sharing themselves with all they bathe with, especially vulnerable whiteys.

So now I have two pinkish workout towels to go with the six other mostly white ones.

Just to prove that I’m a guy comfortable in my skin, even when it is sweating, I grabbed a pinkish towel today as I left for the gym. I didn’t notice any of the guys approach the recliner bikes next to mine and retreat quickly.

Here’s a conversation never likely to be held by two guys in a gym:

Guy #1, “I see that you are using a pinkish towel. Are you trying to send a message, or did you screw up the laundry?”

Guy #2, “Yup, I just blotched the Laundry 101 yearend exam. But fortunately I didn’t mar anything of my wife’s.”

Guy #1, “No worries. I’d show you my pink underwear but one of my bro-friends might notice.”

Guy #2, I appreciate that, but just in case, would you mind sitting two bikes over?”

Just then, a lady in pink tights paraded by, noticed the pink towel and stopped to chat. For your available guys, pink towels could be a babe magnet. If so, maybe you should rethink pink underwear. I can show you how to make some.

2010 Christmas Wish List

2010-01-03T10:37:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided to put in my Christmas wish list early this year. That way maybe I will get more of what I want. Hey, a guy can try.

Another year of heating, air conditioning, refrigerator, dishwasher, and washer and dryer units functioning without any failures or replacement.
A full year of no credit card percentage hikes.
Another year of periodic plumbing flushing without major system surgery, or re-routing.
Another year without having to rewire the house.
With the last payment on our hybrid in April, at least a full year without the expensive battery replacement. I know, a bit greedy—dipping into the 2011 wish list.
At least one of our three lost ships using its GPS to find a dock, even if still not docking.
Ten pounds less than today.
A full year without any viruses eating my hard drive.
A full year without any viruses, or some obscure incurable disease, eating me, or PJ.
Our son’s employment status stable enough so he stays moved out.
A successful partial knee replacement for PJ, and a short recovery.
Another year of not living in paranoia, or fearing change.
Solving at least half of the Los Angeles Times’ Sunday Crosswords, and thereby reducing my cross words.
Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering book sales beyond expectations.
A robust start on another book.
Twenty-five new recipes to salivate over. I’ll try many more, but would love twenty-five keepers.
Learning to swear in French while watching UCLA sports. The neighbors will be grateful.
At least five new life-long friends.
Safe travels to multiple reunions—five.
Another year of earning the friendship of my friends.
A stress-free accommodation to PJ’s retirement and presence in our accommodations 24/7. Merde!
Another year of expansive novels with my book club.
Another year of thinking outside the box, stretching the envelope, and contributing new clichés.
Another year of giving more than I get, despite this lengthy wish list. Are twenty-four too greedy?
Peace on earth. Now I am being greedy.

Male Jerk of the Year

2009-12-28T15:23:00.000-08:00

The 2009 Male Jerk of the Year award goes to Richard Heene, aka the father of balloon boy. His wife wins a supporting role nod.

Richard concocted the scheme in an effort to score a reality show. Now he faces a different reality—jail.

According to a Huffington Post write-up, the prosecutor “portrayed the Heenes as increasingly desperate as their pitches for a reality TV show kept getting turned down by the networks…”

The runner-up is Tiger Woods.

Richard Heene nips Tiger by two strokes because he abused a child—his own—using him as a pawn both for the charade and the charade that followed under the glare of the national media. As such, he is even more unfit as a father than Tiger, whose children are as yet too young to have a clue about what he was doing.

Tis the Nutty Season

2009-12-23T10:14:00.000-08:00

Well, yes, that kind, too.

For now I was referring to cooking with nuts, even if it means never allowing that sometimes sane aunt, cousin, or nephew into your kitchen. That’s where I keep the knives.

I keep all manner of nuts at the ready: almonds, hazelnuts, macadamia, pecans, pine nuts, and walnuts. I rarely use cashews for cooking, finding them sinful (salted, especially) by themselves, but difficult to find a mate for on match.com.

Like the healthy improbables, red wine and dark chocolate, much as been written lately about the health benefits of nuts, in moderation, of course. Nuts contain monounsaturated fats, which help lower low-density LDL (bad) cholesterol and may raise high-density HDL (good) cholesterol. Major studies have found that eating nuts significantly reduces the risk of coronary disease. They are rich in vitamins, minerals, and other goodies such as omega-3 in walnuts, and calcium and vitamin E in almonds. They are good sources of protein and fiber.

Just remember—key word—moderation. If using for cooking, never buy them smothered with salt.

Here are some ways I will be using nuts for the next week:

—Almond Shortbreads

—Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar & Spice Pecans, Pecans, Pecans

—Caramelized Walnuts

—Homemade Pesto with either Pine Nuts or Walnuts

—Pecan-crusted Red Snapper

—Macadamia Nut Crusted Mahi-Mahi

—Roasted Haricot Verts with Toasted Hazelnuts

—Jack Daniels Chocolate Pecan Pie

It is that other “bad” stuff that does the damage. Even in moderation, weight gain over the holidays is rarely moderate. I just throw in the towel—after doing the dishes, of course.

A domestic engineer guy’s duties double over the holidays.

Tis the Season

2009-12-16T10:49:00.000-08:00

Tis the season for braising, crock pot creations, and soups from scratch.

Since I live in Southern California I don’t pay much attention to seasonal cooking. I’m happy to braise a beef stew in July as in January.

Still, with a nip in the air and some nog in a glass, tis the season.

I recently rifled my recipes searching for several favorites, and set aside the following:

—Zinfandel Braised Beef Short Ribs

—Hearty Beef Stew, an Emeril concoction with a few modifications

—Potted Roast, my own blend of several recipes, and a part of my book

—Potato and Leek Soup, a personal favorite

—Butternut Squash Soup

—Corn Chowder, though corn is not in season—no matter in SoCal

—Roasted Tomato Basil Soup

—Rosemary White Bean Soup.

In the previous post, one of Michael Pollen’s consumption caveats is to avoid products that make health claims. To that point, allow me to list the ingredients of Campbell’s Healthy Request Cream of Chicken. Excuse me while I find my magnifying glass. Okay, here we go: chicken stock, modified food starch, cooked chicken meat, water, maltodextrin, cream (milk), wheat flour, vegetable oil, contains less than 1 % of: soy protein concentrate, lower sodium natural seasalt, cornstarch, beta carotene for color, potassium chloride, flavoring, salt, disodium inosinate, disodium guanylate, chicken fat, autolyzed yeast extract, soy protein isolate, sodium phosphates, spice, chicken flavor (contains chicken stock, chicken powder, chicken fat), spice extract.

How’s that for getting those taste buds salivating?—especially autolyzed yeast extract, chicken powder, and maltodextrin.

In contrast, here are the ingredients of a soup I made two days ago: ½ stick of butter, 2 medium leeks, 3 stalks celery, 2 large carrots, 1 (1-inch) piece of ginger, 1 jalapeno, 1 teaspoon dried thyme, coarse sea salt, 1 medium butternut squash, 4 cups homemade chicken stock, or water, ½ cup heavy cream, white pepper, and toasted chopped pecans. It was amazing.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Food Caveats

2009-12-13T10:40:00.000-08:00

Michael Pollan, author of the best seller, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, has a new book out entitled In Defense of Food. At the end of it he lists tips and/or admonitions about food.

Don’t eat anything your great grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food.
Don’t eat anything incapable of rotting.
Avoid products containing ingredients that are a) unfamiliar, b) unpronounceable, c) more than five in number, or that include d) high-fructose syrup.
Avoid food products that make health claims.
Shop the peripheries of the supermarket and stay out of the middle.
Get out of the supermarket whenever possible.
Shake the hand that feeds you.
Eat mostly plants, especially leaves.
You are what you eat eats too.
If you have the space, buy a freezer.
Eat like an omnivore.
Eat well-grown food from healthy soils.
Eat wild foods when you can.
Eat more like the French. Or the Italians. Or the Japanese. Or the Indians. Or the Greeks.
Regard nontraditional foods with skepticism.
Don’t look for the magic bullet in the traditional diet.
Have a glass of wine with dinner.
Pay more, eat less.
Eat meals.
Do all of your eating at a table.
Don’t get your fuel from the same place your car does.
Try not to eat alone.
Consult your gut.
Eat slowly.
Cook, and if you can, plant a garden.

I offer these without snark, or humor, because most of the time I am quite serious about food.

Annual Power Surge

2009-12-09T12:07:00.000-08:00

Living in a relatively high-end cul de sac brings with it responsibilities, especially during the holidaze season, when it’s time for the annual power surge.

It isn’t enough that we keep our property coifed and houses sufficiently presentable so that the association’s architectural committee doesn’t begin sending threatening letters.

Duding the place up for the holidaze has always been on the guy side of the to-do ledger so there is no BS in Domestic Engineering course to take, other than a memory one. This domestic engineer guy can never remember from one year to the next how he strung up the front-of-the-house lights, adding more stress to the stringing.

This year I was without my helper, our golden retriever, Dutch. We had to put him down in early November.

Three of our four closest neighbors (even the non-Christian Chinese family) defy tradition and hang strings of white icicles from their front roofs. Thank goodness for the Thai Buddhist family two doors down. Otherwise we’d be surrounded by four faux wintery symbols.

I’ll stick with old-fashioned multi-colored bulb lights—the ones that pop into a million pieces if jarred the slightest. They also create a power surge that causes a blood pressure surge when I open the January City of Anaheim electrical bill.

The other surprise is opening the credit card statements and seeing how much PJ overshot our Christmas gift budget. This will be the fourth year in a row we have vowed ourselves a minimalist Christmas.

But then I will remind myself that she is the family ATM, so I am restricted to minimalist mutterings.

Wiener of the Year

2009-12-07T08:56:00.000-08:00

A Blog about guys, domestic engineers or otherwise, wouldn’t be about guys if football didn’t show up now and then.

The BCS pairings came out yesterday. Once again they proved their paranoid, mercurial, Dark Ages mentality. Another year of BCS BS.

For the unaware, the BCS has a contractual arrangement with six college conferences: Big Ten, ACC, Big East, SEC, Big 12, and Pac-10. Each conference winner automatically gets one of the ten berths, leaving the potential for four at-large berths. Traditionally the Rose Bowl matches the winners of the Pac-10 and the Big Ten, unless one of those teams is in the championship game. SEC teams usually end up in the Sugar Bowl.

As much as they would like to, the BCS cannot control the ranking systems that feed the final rankings. They cannot control teams from the “lesser” conferences and who and how they play on the field.

Each year 1-2 of those “lesser” teams go undefeated. This year there were two: Boise State and Texas Christian University. In order to avoid embarrassments from two previous years (Boise State “upset” Oklahoma a few years ago, and last year Utah “upset” Alabama), this year they made sure none of their pampered teams were at risk by matching Boise State (BCS ranking, 6^th) and TCU (BCS ranking, 4^th) in the Fiesta Bowl.

Florida, Iowa, and Cincinnati are all breathing a sigh of relief. Wimps.

The Big Ten, traditionally performing poorly in previous post-season bowls, once again has two teams in the ten BCS slots, both with two losses, thus guaranteeing the conference two major paychecks.

The BCS takes the top slot in the 2009 Wiener of the Year competition.

Turkey Salad Pesto Sandwiches

2009-11-27T13:17:00.000-08:00

This is variation of a turkey sandwich recipe I clipped from the LA Times Food Section a few years ago.

½ cup toasted and chopped pecans

3-4 cups diced leftover turkey (white and dark meat)

1 cup red grapes, halved if small, quartered if larger

1 cup diced celery

¼ finely sliced green onions (scallions)

2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon

1 cup of regular or low-fat mayonnaise

Salt and pepper

Freshly made pesto

Whole-grain bread

1. Toast the pecans.

2. In a large mixing bowl blend the turkey, grapes, celery, onions, tarragon, mayonnaise, salt, pepper and pecans.

3. Spread the pesto sauce on both bread slices, pile on the turkey salad, and presto, you have a great sandwich.

This will easily make six servings.

If you don’t have a basic pesto recipe:

2 cups basil leaves

¼ cup toasted pine nuts

½ cup freshly grated parmesan

1 garlic glove

1 teaspoon kosher salt

Freshly ground pepper

½ cup extra-virgin olive oil (virgin is fine)

1. Assemble all of the ingredients except the olive oil in a food processor.

2. Process the ingredients while slowly pouring in the olive oil.

The original recipe called for using cranberry sauce as the sandwich condiment. If you like cranberry sauce (which I don’t), have at it.

How was my Thanksgiving, you ask? Quoting from my book, “It was the best turkey I ever prepared.” Everything else was pretty spectacular as well.

Massaging Your Turkey

2009-11-25T09:13:00.000-08:00

Last year I broke from a multi-year tradition and did a dry-brine for our day of fowl play, spurred on by a favorite LA Times foodie writer, Russ Parsons. The process was simple; rub kosher salt all over the bird, wrap in an oven bag and let it sit for three days in the refrigerator. (Making room for it will challenge your organizational skills.)

Our reward was the moistest turkey in memory. No memory jokes.

This year I ordered my turkey early (from Bristol Farms) anticipating the same process.

But a week before Thanksgiving, Parsons scribed some improvements on the salty technique, sharing a reader-inspired concoction of kosher salt, fresh rosemary and grated lemon zest. I bit.

The bird went in the refrigerator on Monday morning. This morning I removed it and gave it a thorough massage. Hey, a guy can follow directions and the sage Parsons instructed me to massage thoroughly.

Later, the bird and I shared a cigarette.

Thanksgiving Myths

2009-11-24T16:49:00.000-08:00

MSNBC.com posted an article today entitled “5 biggest Thanksgiving myths debunked.” The article comes from Bon Appetit.

1. The bigger the turkey the better. Guys would always pick the bird with the biggest breasts. I think it’s in the DNA. Apparently when it comes to turkeys, large breasts are overrated. Think turkeys on steroids.

2. Fresh pumpkin is better than canned pumpkin. I always use canned pumpkin for a favorite pumpkin cheesecake recipe. For fresh pumpkin I would need a Ford F-150 and a back brace.

3. Turkey makes you sleepy. No, adult beverages make you sleepy, or if you eat so much you cannot move. In that case, you might as well sneak in a nap while down. You will also need a nap if you don’t plan, prep, and prepare as much as possible ahead of time and you’re in the kitchen from sunup to sundown.

4. Stuffing is the same as dressing. No, that is why they call it stuffing—it is stuffed inside the turkey. Dressing is prepared in an oven-safe, casserole-type dish. Go with the dressing. It is hard to get any crunch to the breading when it is getting all soppy inside the bird. The cooking turkey-correctness posse also suggests that using and subsequently consuming stuffing raises the risk of bacteria types I can’t spell.

5. Pop-up plastic thermometers work. Simply stated, they are unreliable and you need a reliable way to make sure that turkey is cooked (and not overcooked). Besides, the size of pop-ups allows too much juice to escape. I have tried a number of thermometers including instant read. I have yet to get it perfect with a turkey and my oven and end up using the zapper (microwave).

Bon Appetit left out a few myths.

1. Turkeys can’t fly. Actually the wilder ones can, albeit short distances. The domesticated ones are so fattened they have as good a chance of flying as emus. Thankfully, Europeans bypassed America and transported emus to Australia. Turkey Day has a better ring then Emu Day. The turkey flying myth was immortalized by a classic episode of a 70s’s sitcom, WKRP Cincinnati.

2. Deep-frying is the best way to cook a turkey. You’d probably want to check with your local fire department and find out the number of emergency calls on turkey day for exploding fryers. If you must earn your guy badge this way I suggest you cook the bird at least 100 yards from the house and any dry forest or shrub area, and don fireman garb.

3. Cranberry is a Thanksgiving staple. Not. There are about five hundred foods that go better with turkey. Okay, so I never liked cranberry.

4. The turkey waddle is the way they walk. Actually the turkey waddle is the word for the sagging skin on the turkey’s neck; also know as turkey neck. On humanoids, Botox buttresses that blight. Celebrating Thanksgiving-style throughout the year would also fill out that waggle, and cause one to waggle.

Guy's Guide to Domestic Engineering is Published

2009-11-19T09:54:00.000-08:00

For those blog readers who found me independent of my friends and family emailings, Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering is now available on both Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com.

My new website, domesticengineerguy.com is also live. Be sure to visit and check out my occasionally serious videos, and scroll through the cartoons spaced throughout the book.

This blog site will stay live—I need the blogspot process for new entries. All new posts will also be imported into my website, joining the archive already there.

The book’s chapters are short so don’t be put off by the number of chapters. Here they are:

Introduction—You’ve Been Jobbed

Separation Anxieties

Time for Home Schooling

Adjusting More Than Attitude

You’re a Y-Chromosome-Challenged Guy

A Short History of Guys and the Kitchen

A Slightly Longer History of the Kitchen and Me

Tools of the Trade

Guy and Carts—Provisions Procurement

Foodie Cookbooks, Magazines, Shows, and Following Directions

Expanding Your Vocabulary—More Brain Food

BS (But Seriously)

Blueberry Thrills

Guy’s Guide to Wine

Au Chocolat

Real Men Barbecue (with charcoal)

How Not to Choke on a Choke

Our Day for Fowl Play

Vaguely Vogue

Just Call Me “Franck”

Master of the House

Channeling Your Handy-Manly Side

iYogi, You Boo Boo

Mastering the Sanctum Sanctorum

Who Moved My Washcloth?

Gutting the Garage

Pulp Friction

Mastering Lint

Mastering the Zen of Ironing

How to Score (extra points with your bride)

The Care and Feeding of You

Bookish Club

Here’s to Not Dying

BMI and Thunder Thighs

No, You Did Not Ask, But Here is the Shortest Weight Loss, Weight Control, Long-Life Program You Will Ever Read (and the longest chapter heading)

Congrats Grad

The Ability to Cook Does Not a Metrosexual Make

Domestic Engineer Guy, the New Uberguy

Is My BS Enough

Recipes for Success

Breakfast of Champions

Dinner Spoilers (appetizers)

Salads Not Found on the All-You-Can-Eat Salad Bar

Where’s the Beef?—Here’s Your Beef

Cluckers and Gobblers

Pork for Porkers

Mary Had a Little Lamb—Which We Ate

Salmon-Plus Recipes

Something on the Side

Live Large—Eat Desserts

Cigar & Courvoisier

Trans-gender Papayas

2009-11-08T11:49:00.000-08:00

Here’s a BREAKING NEWS story in today’s Los Angeles Times: “Papaya sex change is in the works.”

This is the kind of story that humorist Dave Barry used to write of, saying, “You can’t make this stuff up.”

Okay, it didn’t make the front page, was buried in the middle of Section A, and topped out at around 200 words.

PJ and I love papaya but the only time we eat it everyday is while vacationing in Hawaii, where a papaya costs less than one dollar. By the time Hawaiian papayas reach our supermarkets they cost over three dollars, and they rarely taste the same. Papayas are good for you. How? Let’s just say they move things along.

There are three papaya sexual orientations: male, female, and hermaphrodite. It’s the third that produces the tasty cleansing agents. A hermaphrodite carries both male and female sexual organs.

A University of Illinois biology professor has been given a grant by the National Science Foundation to encourage more papaya sex changes to hermaphrodites, which supposedly would save on production cost and potentially pass on the cost savings to consumers. Like that could happen.

If perfect papayas grow in Hawaii, why wasn’t the grant given to the University of Hawaii? Urbana-Champaign (home to the U. of Illinois) is not a hot spot for growing papaya.

I have no idea how anyone could tell the sexual orientation of a papaya, but apparently the sexual orientation of papaya can only be determined when they have grown and flowered. So papaya growers have no use for the weaker sexes: male AND female.

When our son was between the rug rat and pre-teen stage, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were the rage of Saturday morning TV. We bought him a turtle, which he named Donatello. It was only later when we took the turtle to the vet that we had a name change to Donna. There was just no way I was going to be caught trying to determine the sex of a turtle.

We had to find a new home for Donna. Our son couldn’t cotton having a female turtle for a pet.

I’m wondering if there is a trans-gender turtle and if that is the source of turtle soup, about the only thing of any value from a turtle.

Slowness

2009-11-08T10:54:00.000-08:00

I’m usually reading two books at a time; one, fiction, for my monthly book group obligation, and two, nonfiction, for whatever political, social, or cultural tome makes my heart beat a bit faster.

A current nonfiction book of interest is entitled In Praise of Slowness, which ideally will help my heart beat a bit slower.

This is not a review of the book, though I do recommend it. Just don’t speed-read it. The slowness movement, catching on slowly in the United States, has a slow food component. Its website is slowfoodusa.org.

I have blogged earlier about my resistance to speed cooking, hyped by Food Network shows like Rachael Ray’s 30-Minute Meals.

Now, even my favorite chef, Mark Bittman (bittman.blogs.nytimes.com) has a new book out entitled Kitchen Express, “404 inspired recipes you can make in 20 minutes or less.” No doubt Mark was feeling the pressure to feed the short-term America phenomenon because speed is not what he usually touts.

Today I found a quote from his blog that I wish I had seen in time to include in my book Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering, now available on both amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. This fits my kitchen philosophy to a tee. Question: “What would you say is the most important skill to develop in the kitchen?” Answer: “The ability to go in there and start. I am the least impressive cook you will ever see. I am completely without knife skills. I screw things up all of the time. When I’m in the kitchen I’m not obsessively trying to create the perfect dish; I’m trying to put dinner on the table. Comparing yourself to the people who cook on television is like comparing yourself to Andre Agassi. If you can drive you can cook.”

Mark is being too modest; he cooks on television regularly on The Today Show. That is how I first noted him. Even though his cooking segments are only a few minutes he always exudes a casual, calm, “I don’t take myself too seriously” style.

Cooking is like most skills acquired in life; if you don’t begin, you will probably suck at it. And the goal is to put something edible on the table in time to still be called dinner, in a casual, calm style.

Beer Runs

2009-10-31T15:53:00.000-07:00

I have been a nag in past blogs about the importance of shopping lists, sticking to them and double and triple checking them while in the supermarket.

Yesterday, during my weekly provisions run I was at my first of three stops when I realized I had forgotten my list—again. Rather then test my memory I returned home figuring that if I didn’t I’d forget several items and have to go back out again. I could pay the gas pump then, or pay it later.

At my final stop, while in the checkout line and paying my bill, I overheard a woman who had just gotten in line. She was saying—to no one in particular—that she couldn’t understand how her cart was so full of mostly junk food. She had only come in to buy beer.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Guys and Onions

2009-10-30T10:37:00.000-07:00

Onions, dry and green (scallions) and their extended family members, shallots, chives, and leeks, are low in calories. Some of them make the tear ducts leak.

Tears can add a bit of salty flavor but generally get in the way of meal preparation. The worst offenders are dry onions and shallots, both of which I use liberally.

Guys don’t tear up as much as women would prefer, but tearing up in the kitchen is only appropriate if you’ve scalded something or sliced off part of a finger. Then both tears and expletives are kosher.

I have read lots of suggestions about ways to prevent tearing up in the middle of meal preparation. I have tried most of them with varying degrees of success:

—Chill or freeze them thirty minutes prior to slicing and dicing.

—When peeling dry onions, do not cut off the root (where tear-jerking agitators are rooted) but slice up to it.

—Light a candle next to the onion. Supposedly the flame neutralizes the sulfuric fumes. Keep the kitchen lights on.

—Buy a small fan and blow away the sulfuric fumes while chopping.

The only method that works consistently is the small fan method. I found a cheap one at Target and have it as a permanent fixture on my countertop. Stoicism reigns. If size matters, buy a bigger fan. A one-foot diameter fan is probably overkill. It will blow over the wine glass.

When sautéing onions use the back burner and turn on the stove fan. You probably shouldn’t stick your head over the pan while sautéing.

To rid yourself of onion breath, eat some parsley or chew fennel seeds. Then use a toothpick to remove the parsley or fennel seeds from between your teeth. Then go to the dentist to remove the toothpick fragments, unless your dental plan doesn’t cover toothpick removals.

Pre-cleaning

2009-10-19T07:52:00.000-07:00

Pre-cleaning? Okay, I have some s’plaining to do.

Twice a month, a cleaning service scours our home. I tried talking PJ into once a month service but tie votes end up on her side of the scorecard.

What you ask—domestic engineer guys don’t clean? Fair question. My answer is that I am allergic to vacuum cleaners. Not buying that? Fair enough. My cleaning skills, while good for a guy, come up short on PJ’s grading scale. I agree with Roseanne Barr who said she would vacuum when John Deere made a riding vacuum cleaner.

In my defense, I am a relatively tidy person. I keep the kitchen clean and the house clutter-free, most days. My idea of housecleaning is to sterilize the place four times a year, even if it requires using that sucking device. I consider dust a decoration. Then once it is removed it’s like looking at new furniture.

PJ, while less tidy, can smell mold at fifty paces, and tell if any room has been vacuumed by walking into the house blindfolded. Most blindfolded guys would ask, “What is that strange smell?”

Back to pre-cleaning—we tidy up the house before the cleaning service arrives. This means clothes off the floors (so they can vacuum), and stuff off desktops and countertops (so they can dust). It means that my office floor filing system is temporarily relocated on the bed.

The dishwasher is emptied. Otherwise the cleaners would load the breakfast dishes on top of the cleaned ones.

When our son was still ensconced in our house, we barred the cleaners from his two-room apartment. We feared that they might catch something and we weren’t sure our homeowner’s policy covered cultures transmitted to the hired help.

When PJ retires I’ve talked her into once a month service. She only agreed after I committed to vacuuming once a week. In anticipation I’ve put in a new product request to John Deere for a riding vacuum cleaner, one with a built-in TV monitor.

My dusting strategy is to borrow the leaf blower from the lawn service guys, open the doors and windows and blow the dust out.

Bookish Club Part II

2009-10-06T14:28:00.000-07:00

In an earlier blog I wrote about my nearly 10-year membership in a north Orange County book club. In it I lamented the lackluster literary landscape of male characters. I wrote, “Sadly, there are too few Atticus Finches in the world, and in literature.” Conversely, the literary world has amassed a multitude of heroines.

In September our group picked our eleven novels* for our tenth year. Since the October book was taking longer than usual to arrive via Amazon, I began to read Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks since we already owned it.

This is not a review of the book, though I will say that if the rest of the books on this year’s list are as well written and engrossing as this one, it will be our best year. Year of Wonders is a fictionalized recount of an actual event that occurred in central England in the 17^th Century—a virulent plague—albeit isolated to one small village (Eyam) of less than 1,000 residents.

But (and isn’t there always one), the author dashed my hopes near the climax. Not with the lead female character (and narrator), but with the main male character. Rector Michael Mompellion emerges as a towering figure throughout the ordeal. Ninety percent though the book I am feeling that finally we have another authentic male hero (not of the ilk of Clancy, Grisham or Ludlum imagined swashbucklers) I can add to my woefully short list that begins with Atticus Finch.

She knocked that wish down and stomped on it. Damn her.

In her afterword the author wrote, “Where I have invented, I have altered or created names to indicate this. Thus, Michael Mompellion reflects the true rector of Eyam, the heroic and saintly William Monpesson, only in the admirable aspects of his character and deeds. The darker side I have given his fictional counterpart is entirely imagined.”

The narrator, Anna Frith, easily makes the top-40 list of literary heroines, with a bullet.

Not surprisingly, the creator of Atticus Finch is a woman, Harper Lee. Is it not possible for a male author to create an admirable, textured (though not flawless) male hero?

* Our books for this year:

Regeneration Pat Barker

My Jim Nancy Rawles

Huckleberry Finn* Mark Twain

White Tiger Aravind Adigo

Faust, Part One J.W. Goethe

Midnight Children Salman Rushdie

Cold Comfort Farm Stella Gibbons

Requiem for a Lost Empire Andrei Makine

The Bridegroom (Short Stories) Ha Jim

Now in November Josephine Johnson

Year of Wonders Geraldine Brooks

Water for Elephants Sara Gruen

* Extra credit for combining Huckleberry Finn with My Jim, earning an extra portion of dessert.

Houseguest Rules

2009-10-01T16:54:00.000-07:00

Domestic Engineer Guys get to establish most of the houseguest rules (after attaining sign-off from their live-in ATM). So, if you ever pass our way, here are the houseguest rules* for the Frohreich Funhouse.

—Arrival gifts are always a nice touch. Here are several suggestions:
A really good bottle of Syrah
A really good bottle of red wine (not pinot noir)
Belgium chocolate, unopened
An R-rated cook’s apron—full length
—The first morning here, guests will have to sit through a TV operations class.
—Changing the channel while the cook is in the kitchen and the football game is in his line of sight makes the cook cranky.
—The recliner in the family (TV) room is off-limits—always—unless PJ is in it.
—Guests must pat the dog at least twice a day, and once a day play fetch with his spittle-soaked toys. Walking him once a day with the pooper-scooper earns future invites. Guests with allergies are not excused. Tyveks, gloves, and masks will be provided. Any guest Dutch does not approve of doesn’t get invited back.
—If the stay is longer than a couple of days, the washer and dryer are available, but Domestic Engineer Guy, aka Laundry Man, is not.
—Anything in the refrigerator or pantry is fair game, except for leftover filet-of-beef or rack-of-lamb. Open bar is a 24/7 policy, though 5 PM is the preferred start of social hour.
—Interrupting Domestic Engineer Guy in the morning with trivial pursuits while he is engrossed in the daily crossword puzzle makes him cranky.
—Special diet or food and beverage preferences must be emailed to Domestic Engineer Guy at least three days prior to arrival. If your face looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy (only blushing), after you consume salmon, it would be good for the cook to know.
—The cook is an adequate mixologist (except for Mai Tais and Cosmopolitans). Special requests will be stocked with advance notice.
—Guests staying a week or more are expected to toss some jack into the kitty. It is the gesture, not the amount that matters.
—Guests are not expected to participate in any of the household duties. Helping clear the dinner table and stacking the dishwasher is fine. Unloading the dishwasher is a no-no.
—Domestic Engineer Guy is not a barista. But his coffee is better than Starbucks.
—Guest don’t have to love everything the cook prepares, but if it wasn’t on your this-makes-me-vomit list, then you are expected to eat at least half a portion. Moans and accolades are permitted. Trust me, you will eat better than at most restaurants.
—Offers to help in the kitchen will be rebuffed. But it’s okay to ask. The cook has enough trouble organizing himself. The cook usually does not need a sous chef. Besides, he is more of a shoo chef—as in get out of his kitchen.
—Chauffeur duties are free and available, though not unlimited. But you have to humble yourself and be seen in a 12-year old, bottom-of-the-line Saturn.
—Sitting at the kitchen dinette with an adult beverage, regaling the cook with stories is expected.
—You don’t have to make your bed each morning, unless Domestic Engineer Guy has let you sleep in his office, but at least keep the door closed.
—The kitchen is open for lunch, but the cook is not on duty. Provisions will be provided.
—Showing up for dinner five minutes before it is served makes the cook cranky, and not a good way to begin an evening. The cook is flexible. He just needs advance notice about the day’s plans.
—Sleep in as long as you like, but Domestic Engineer Guy is not a cook-on-call in the morning.
—Departure gifts are not necessary but adding us to your will, will earn future invites, access to filet-of-beef and rack-of-lamb leftovers, and passes on doggie duty and wine gifts.
—The number one rule is to enjoy yourself. You are our guest.

Y’all come.

* None of these rules apply to PJ’s nephew. He keeps the computers humming and shoots and produces Domestic Engineer Guy’s YouTube videos. He can do any damn thing he pleases.

Book Status

2009-09-28T13:08:00.000-07:00

While this blog relates to (and with some postings, draws from) my book Guy's Guide to Domestic Engineering, I have not written about my getting-published experiences. I was afraid of TMI, too much information, and your eyes would glaze over.

I've been pretty focusd the past three months. As such, I've reread the book ten more times, and the publishing editors have read it four times. As I write this, the book is being proofed in final layout form. I expect those corrections within two days, and then I have one last shot at it.

I'm amazed at how much I still find, and have resigned myself to the reality that it will probably go into print with a few errors - hopefully less than the fingers on one hand.

The schedule should deliver a final product in about two weeks. At that time I will get my free contractual copies and the book will be available for purchase on the publisher's website, iuniverse.com. I have no idea what its value is, but iUniverse has awarded me Editor's Choice, a merit awarded to only ten percent of their authors.

For those interested I will post purchase instructions on this blog at that time, and send out an email to a preliminary list of friends and family. It will take another 6-8 weeks to go up on websites like Amazon and Barnes and Noble, or to learn if I'm getting any interest from the retailers.

Meanwhile, I have been hard at work piecing together my marketing plan. I am up to 600 email addresses, and another 100 snail mail addresses. Four videos, each about four minutes long, have been shot, edited and posted on my YouTube page. One more will be shot for an even five.

When the book is minimally available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble I will fire off an email blast announcing its availability and provide the link to the YouTube videos. The link will also be posted on my Facebook page. Hopefully those will be enjoyed enough to be forwarded throughout cyberspace. I will also launch my new website, domesticengineerguy.com. This blog will then be available only on that site.

Yes, I am self-publishing. I beat my head up against the traditional literary agents' (and publishing houses') doors for nine months. No residual headaches. It is nearly impossible to become a first-time nonfiction writer without a platform. Platform? I am not a celebrity, sports professional, national politician, doctor-of-whatever, talk show host, or Julie* of the movie Julie & Julia. In other words, I don't have at least 100,000 followers who think I walk on water - which, by the way, I don't. That is why I learned to swim. If you are in the ozone layer of fame and/or fortune, you don't even have to write well. Publishers will hire someone to ghost write your book.

Self-publishing is swimming of another kind - upstream. Less than 7 percent of all published books sell more than 1,000 copies. I hope that when the time comes you will help me join that elite group and kick the odds in the ass - even without a platform.

* Maybe I should change my first name to Ernest, write a blog about replicating Emeril's recipes and dream of a movie entitled Ernest & Emeril. Then again, maybe not. Emeril uses too many ingredients with too many steps. My eyes glaze over.

Deeper-in-debt Dining

2009-09-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

A blog that I link to, amateurgourmet.com, recently gushed over a meal at restaurant outside of Barcelona, Spain called El Bulli. El Bulli has been designated the #1 restaurant in the world for the past three years. Reservations are nearly impossible at this 50-seat gem. The Amateur Gourmet tried for years and finally scored this summer.

Once there, he and his partner ate and drank their way through the menu and wine list, forking over $1,000 for the evening.

PJ and I will not be dining there soon.

Before the advent of the green economy (having less of the green) we used to eat out once a month. The tabs kept inflating, even if our waistlines didn’t.

In a recent blog I wrote about eating in on our anniversaries lately. Still, I read Irene Virbila every week in the LA Times. Irene is their restaurant reviewer. I like to stay informed in case one of our ships lost at sea finds land.

When Irene gives a restaurant three-stars I take notice. This week she lauded Studio, the restaurant at the Montage Laguna Beach Resort. The Montage sits of a bluff overlooking the Pacific. After diving for my Food Lover’s Companion bible several times while reading her review, I got to the meat and potatoes part—the prices.
Appetizers $23 to $29
Main Courses $43 to $53 (only $53? Must not be using Kobe beef)
Desserts $15

Writing of the wine list she opined, “ …there are enough good wines under $100 to keep anybody happy.” That’s a relief.

Speaking of diving for my foodie dictionary, ever wonder why it’s more and more difficult to translate fine dinning menus—even the ones in English? Guys don’t like looking menu-challenged, or sporting that deer-in-the-headlights look at a high-end restaurant, or the prices. And it’s a bit tacky to bring your Food Lover’s Companion with you.

Just when you think you understand menus, they change, not just the recipes, but also the terminology. Chefs need you to feel intimidated. That way it’s easier to get away with gouge prices if they call a puree, coulis; a dumpling, quenelles; or cake, gateau.

Stay on task, guys. Once you earn your BS in domestic engineering (and one of your ships docks), and you venture back to Le Glitzy Brasserie, you will be able to parle with the best of them.

Costco Cruising

2009-09-15T10:10:00.000-07:00

No matter how large the megastore, one-stop grocery shopping is not possible for any self-respecting cook. My list includes eight Southern California shops. Yes, I said eight. The list includes Vons, Ralphs, Costco, Trader Joes, Produce World, Whole Foods, Bristol Farms, and the Wine Exchange. I’ve also added a farmer’s market on Thursdays. Vons earns most of our weekly business. I take out a loan whenever I shop at Whole Foods or Bristol Farms.

Costco is a monthly experience. If you don’t have a Costco in your zip code, think Sam’s Club, both of which are the size of zip codes.

I usually plan my Costco trips close to noon. That way I can do lunch. Not at their fast food concession, but sampling their samples.

For the uninformed or people who don’t get out much, Costco is like shopping at a warehouse. The aisles are wide, the carts are large, and the packages are daunting. Once I needed salt, but the only offering was something in a burlap bag weighing in at twenty-five pounds. I e-mailed Costco the next day explaining that I wasn’t planning on feeding the Third Army. No doubt this will shock you, but Costco did not reduce their salt packaging after receiving my e-mail.

I’m wondering how long it will be before you just drive your F-150 down the aisles and pile on provisions the way I used to stack alfalfa bales on the hay wagon back in Indiana. I find hay a bit over the top on the roughage daily requirement chart, so we limit our hay consumption to alfalfa sprouts.

Pound per pound, Costco offers the best value beef in the country day in and day out. All beef is minimally USDA Choice.

If you use the Costco’s of the world for most of your perishables, and you have a large family, you will need four refrigerators or a separate refrigerated public storage facility. Fortunately, as empty nesters, our freezer can handle at least a month of stored proteins.

If you use Costco for non-perishables, you will need space the size a car would occupy in your garage. But if your halfway house junk is already occupying that space (if it’s there, it is half way out of the house), then you need to kick one of your kids out of the house and stock the non-perishables in their bedroom.

It will be okay—builds character, and reduces your monthly household expenses. Tough call though—Costco versus children. I would at least wait until they’ve reached eighteen. I’m a softie when it comes to children.

Getting Hammered

2009-09-14T10:58:00.000-07:00

No, not that kind of hammered.

When I introduced this blog I mentioned that I would occasionally toss a rant into the crockpot. This is such a time

This morning PJ handed me a document she had withheld from me since Friday because she didn’t want to ruin my weekend. Good move. It was an announcement from her deputy district attorney association that healthcare costs were going up again this year, this time by 16%. Not to be outdone, dental care costs are jumping 24%. In the past the County of Los Angeles has paid for such rate increases, without hitting the DDA’s paychecks.

So, we have our own personal context to the current healthcare “debate.” I use quotes because what we have is not a debate.

Earlier this summer my Discover Card interest rate was 8.9%. It is now 13.25%. This was no trigger tied to an introductory rate. I called Discover, knowing I was wasting my time, and knowing I would be talking to someone who just needs a job and cringes over calls like mine. I asked the reason why, also knowing that I have not missed or sent in any late payments. The answer—economic conditions. Let me see, the current Federal Reserve prime rate is 3.25%, the lowest in years. Economic conditions my ass. I’m going way out on a limb here and guess that just maybe the new regulations passed by Congress and signed into law in May of this year allows ample time for the jacking up of rates until the law takes full effect next summer.

Here’s a little tart morsel: penalty fees for the major credit card companies (there are six who control 90% of the business) increased to $18 billion in 2007, up from $10.7 billion in 2002, a 68% increase in five years. Talk about an ROI (return on investment) on ramping up their lobbying and campaign contribution budgets.

Paying the bills is a major duty for domestic engineer guys. I used to pay bills once a month. There was always a grace period. I screwed up and missed a payment maybe once a year, but not due to cash flow issues. It was due to screw-up issues. Now I pay bills throughout the month. Mistakes happen. Their “gotcha” devices are a maze to manage.

Managing a household budget is becoming as challenging as managing a small company. Most of us did not matriculate through college with a business degree.

On another front, I have a bit of a lead foot. Even so, my speeding tickets are few and far between. My recent infraction cost $370, nearly twice as much as the last time. PJ has a bum knee and recently forgot to hang her handicapped parking decal on the mirror, though it was in full view on the dashboard. The fine was $283.

Me thinks more major grumbling should be directed at the healthcare industry, the credit card industry, and the punitive fines from our municipalities, than flapping our jaws over taxes, which at least on the federal level have been holding even or going down for most of us. States are another matter.

These other areas are much more taxing.

Here in lies the end of this rant.

This and That

2009-09-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

When there are certain emergencies that require you to dial Men-With-Butt-Cracks, try to avoid scheduling your nap when they occupy your home. You might be able to expand your Mr. Fix-it credentials.

I confess to enjoying the company of my computer while these Bob Vila clones are around, especially if I know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of my stepping up the next time the same problem occurs. But now and then, I pay attention, thinking, “I can do that.”

I am gaining bravado when it comes to the underpinnings of sinks, kitchen or bathroom—as long as I’m willing to dislocate a shoulder now and then.

Today was one of those days. I cleaned out a mostly clogged pipe under my second kitchen sink. Better yet, my shoulders are intact. Since very few scraps ever go down the backup sink, I have no idea how so much could congeal* there. Calcification, I get. I got rid of most of that as well.

I’m feeling so cocky, I just might tackle replacing a couple roof titles next week, or when the weather dips below 100 degrees. Must be September.

Last week I once again proved why women still need men. PJ had managed to entrap a large cricket under one of my serving bowls. The bowl had been handy in the bathroom because she had used it to soak her fingers. Women go soak themselves a lot. But she needed me to complete that icky task. I captured the cricket with a paper towel, but not so firmly as to harm it. I released it onto our patio table. For some reason it just sat there. I think it was an indoor cricket. I gave it a goose and off it flew into the wilds of Anaheim Hills, and smack dab into the middle of our palm tree. It fluttered to the ground, stunned.

With the current fire infernos in southern California, PJ is looking askance at our fire hazards. That would be our trees and bushes. She is hinting that I begin major trimmings, even if it meant yours truly pretending he is spider-man with a chain saw. Like that could happen. Men over fifty have no business out on limbs, endangering their limbs. I will get three bids. I have learned that what begins with a passing suggestion will erupt into a full-scale assault on my manhood, and time, in a few weeks.

That Tucson-style landscaping is looking better and better. Lower water bills, too.

*Okay so I used a cooking term, congeal, to describe a plumbing problem. It happens to cooks. It could be worse. I could have made a verb out of a noun and said, "...how so much could glob there.” Like that’s never happened before.

Halfway House

2009-08-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

Residentially, a halfway house is a place for convicted criminals to transition from prison back into society.

Garages are halfway houses in reverse. If something is in the garage, it is halfway out of the house. How long stuff stays there depends on your garage’s size and how anal you are about a clean garage. Cobweb, rat and cockroach fetishes might be a factor as well.

We have a three-car garage but only have room to park two. We need the third stall to pile stuff. Basements and attics store our past lives. Garages store stuff just passing through, whatever won’t fit into the weekly garage pickup, and stuff that starts smelling enough for the neighbors to launch an eviction petition.

Aside from the cobwebs hitting you in the face on your way to a car, you know it’s time to dump the pile when you can’t see over it, reach your tool bench, the needles have fallen off the Christmas tree, or when the rats are building apartments in your Christmas boxes and their droppings are soiling the bottoms of your shoes.

And where do all of those boxes come from, even six months after Christmas? Every time you think you are cutting back buying stuff, save your boxes for a month. You will need a box-cutter. Granted, my monthly Costco run contributes 2-3 boxes, as does buying wine by the case. My reading habit spins off a monthly Amazon box. But I keep those in my office closet. They are the perfect size for small Christmas packages and sending items to our daughter in Europe.

We dump the dump every 4-5 years. PJ always has lots of advice, like contacting the Goodwill and the children’s hospital thrift shop. Their rejects could be parceled out in the weekly trash collection. And while we would have to stare at the reject pile for a while, it would all be gone in a month or two.

Since I don’t own a Ford F-250, I let my fingers do the talking and make one phone call to a haul-away service. They come the next day. Done. When I hate a task and finally get around to doing it, I have to get it done—fast.

In our neighborhood you can tell the messy garages. The door is always closed. People with clean garages frequently leave the door open just to rub it in. I hate them. These are people who clean their windows after each storm. Their cars, desks, and homes are always immaculate. Their houseplants never die. We, on the other hand, once managed to kill a fake Fichus. They probably have their clothes organized by season and occasion in their closets, and keep their cash organized numerically. Oops, I do that.

After our last dump dumping, I could reach my tools again. The downside—I was out of excuses for my lengthening “honey-do” repair list.

On the upside, the neighbors stopped their petition drive, and the spiders adopted the Christmas tree. We have started a new pile.

Anniversary Menu

2009-08-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

Several years ago PJ and I began a tradition of celebrating our anniversary on our patio, menu compliments of her domestic engineer guy.

This year another couple joined us. Here are the highlights.

Special Cocktail: Mai Tais. This recipe is the closest I have found to the Hawaiian ones we have enjoyed hundreds of times over 15+ Hawaiian trips, including the ones at the infamous Mai Tai Bar on the beach at the Royal Hawaiian in Honolulu.

Appetizers: Toasted Baguette Toppers. There are hundreds of toppings for olive oil slathered toasted baguette slices. Last night I served three: prosciutto, fresh pesto with shaved parmesan, and fresh pesto with diced pancetta and roma tomatoes. The last one was the big hit.

Salad Course: Watermelon Salad with Feta and Toasted Pine Nuts on a bed of arugula. Feta and Watermelon? The feta is a bit neutralized by the watermelon. Great summer salad. Three herbs, dill, basil and mint, are tossed in as well, and finished off with my Basil Dressing.

Main Course: Beef Tenderloin with Morels and Tarragon-Marsala Sauce. As much as I love a traditional béarnaise with beef tenderloin, this is my favorite filet sauce. It’s the morels—though I had to take out a loan.

Side Dish: Roasted Vegetables: haricot verts, red peppers, shallots, and carrots, topped with toasted pecans, lemon zest and Italian parsley. Roasting is my favorite method of preparing vegetables.

Dessert: Blueberry Cream Pie. The crust is mostly crushed and rolled Pecan Sandies.

Wines: Rosenblum Petite Syrah, and a highly rated (Robert Parker) but very young Conn Valley Vineyards cabernet sauvignon. I decanted it and let it breathe for two hours. Very nice. The $15 petite syrah more than held its own. Rosenblum, known for their zinfandels, has brought out some fine syrahs lately.

Even though I paid good money for the Conn Valley cabernet, the filets and the morels, I still estimate that we spent $200 less than if we had celebrated at a fine dining establishment someplace in Newport Beach or Laguna Beach, as had been our tradition. The view from our hillside backyard was just as expansive; the weather was perfect; the candles romantic; the music to our liking, and we didn’t have to drive.

However, there are those dishes. I didn’t have the heart to ask our guests to do them. Besides, they bought anniversary gifts. We left the dishes until this morning. No wine glasses were broken.

Purging

2009-08-13T17:32:00.000-07:00

No, not that kind of purging.

I just purged about half of my recipes. It’s good to purge now and then.

I have my recipes filed by:
Appetizers
Beef
Beverage
Chicken/Turkey/Duck
Dessert
Fish/Seafood
Pastas/Rice (This one is gathering dust.)
Pork/Lamb/Veal
Salads/Dressings
Sandwiches
Sauces/Seasoning/Stocks
Soups
Vegetables
Miscellaneous (This is where I file special occasion recipes like Thanksgiving.)

I purge every couple of years, mostly the ones that were not used in the previous two years. Some are older than that because during the previous purge I still had intentions to try it. You know about good intentions.

I say “my recipes” but they are mostly ones that I have clipped from magazines, newspaper food sections, or printed from Food Network or food blogs. My eyes remain larger than my stomach, or the days of the year.

I have my own recipes, about 100, and three-quarters of them will be in the book, Guy’s Guide to Domestic Engineering, coming soon to a website near you, and hopefully a retail bookstore or two.

So, my advice is that if you haven’t prepared one in 2-3 years, and unless it is a family heirloom that only soils your kitchen when family comes a calling, chuck it, even if it uses chuck. The chefs will make more. So will you.

If you are a pack rat, and you need a room for food books, food magazines, and recipes, seek counseling.

If you’re anal enough, you can transcribe each saved recipe onto a Word document so that they are all the same size. (For those on the plus side of fifty I suggest a font size of at least 14, unless you have rigged up a way to attach one to your glasses.) This makes sense if you use some sort of display system in your kitchen for quick referencing while cooking. It would be better for those waiting in the chow line if you didn’t use recipes as your daily memory tester.

Recipes also stay cleaner this way. To which, I say, bite me, though you may need some Kosher salt, maybe some thyme. A well-seasoned recipe is a mark of a fully engaged cook, or a married one. As long as you can read it, and it’s not seasoned enough to be an appetizer, it’s fine. For guys, call it a badge—just like grease scars, and shirts and aprons with permanent stains.

Panic in the Family

2009-08-09T15:38:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, panic erupted in the Frohreich fortress. The chow line realized that the chief cook and bottle washer was going to be gone for eight days. On previous trips (anything shorter than five days), PJ kept the supermarket rotisserie chicken stand in business.

This time, her nephew was basing in our home for a few weeks. Plus, I knew that our son, since moved out, would keep showing up for dinner on Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights—and to do his laundry.

I knew that if I didn’t put a plan in place, they would add to the rotisserie repertoire by buying meats already stocked in the freezer (they would forget to thaw something for dinner), or go out to eat, further depleting the cash flow.

Solution—pre-cook. I thawed salmon, chicken breasts, pork chops, and sirloin steaks in the refrigerator, enough for at least five meals, and two days later cooked them while preparing a regular dinner meal. It only added an extra hour to the kitchen duty that night. Then I threatened them with refusing to make my chocolate sauce for three months if I returned and had to toss out any meat. I love using their favorite recipes as weapons.

It worked—most of the time. One weekend evening when I called home, they were dashing out the door to TGI Fridays. I told PJ to make our son buy her dinner. His bank account is healthier than ours, partly because he’s still mooching off of us.

When I returned, the meat drawer was empty, the freezer was stocked with vanilla Hagen Daz, and my chocolate sauce recipe was propped up in my countertop recipe holder, ready for implementation—sort of a welcome home message. They’re so lame—I have that one memorized.

Trolling for Moles

2009-08-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

It’s bad enough when the new lawn I put in over a year ago gets mangled by a 13-year old golden retriever who still thinks he’s a pup, and keeps on digging. It is bad enough that something brown (not the dog’s urine or the heat) blotches about 25% of the yard. Now, a mole, or moles, decided to burrow a highway network under our yard.

A year earlier our dog did his duty and dug up a varmint. That was because the mole made a bad decision. It was playing under the area where our dog does his business each morning. Our dog likes his privacy.

The dead mole’s cousins sought revenge and moved to the new yard. Now our dog just yawns.

Mole duty is on the guy’s side of the home-front duty ledger. As a domestic engineer guy, just about everything lands there. Besides, women get all weirded out about critters and varmints.

Mole campaigns conjure up images of grounds-keeper, Bill Murray, in Caddy Shack. Considering my options, I thought using dynamite a bit too disruptive. While my mom was still living on the old homestead in northern Indiana, my older brother once tried drowning moles by pumping water into their underground network. Didn’t work. They must have strapped on some snorkeling gear. I thought about using a rifle with night-vision, and staying up all night...party-time for moles. Then I remembered that I don’t own a gun, nor could I hit the broad side of a barn during those farm days.

I bought some poison pellets at Home Depot, buried them in half a dozen mounds, and left town for eight days. Upon returning I noted no fresh mounds. The moles have either died, burrowed deeper, or moved on to a neighbor’s yard. I’m guessing they moved on since I also buried a map with arrows pointing to the neighboring yards.

Once again, guys have proved their superiority over varmints and critters. We rock. Now it’s time to strap on my apron and prepare dinner.

California Choking

2009-07-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

PJ and I, both California transplants, first encountered artichokes in a Pacific Palisades home in the early 1970s. Though it challenged my Midwest sensibilities, I remained intrigued and open-minded. Importantly, I did not choke, and passed a newcomer’s litmus test.

An artichoke is a perennial thistle. Someone, a long time ago, in North Africa, came upon an artichoke plant, peered at it, and exclaimed, “That looks like food!” His grub gathering partner noted the bulbous, prickly head at the end of a long stem – cut it off at its base, and then preceded to beat the crap out of his buddy, who had obviously been grazing on too much cannabis.

Fast-forward to today, and California is the home of both artichokes and cannabis, though I am just guessing on that second point. In fact, eating an artichoke without choking is one of the tests to become a Californian, third only to a valid driver’s license and choking on smog.

Today, it is not a staple in our house, but we enjoy one once a month. I have seen so many ways to prepare artichokes (or use as an ingredient) that this thistle could compete with the litany of shrimp uses recited by Forrest Gump’s best buddy, Bubba. But, you would expect that in California, home to nearly 100% of the chokes grown in the United States.

The choke migration began in North Africa. The French brought it to Louisiana, and the Spanish carried it to California. Those Spanish were everywhere in the 19th Century. Eighty percent of the production is in Monterey County, with Castroville claiming the title, “Artichoke Capital of the World”. A young Marilyn Monroe was crowned Castroville’s first “Artichoke Queen.”

Technically, an artichoke is a flower. If so, then deflowering one is something guys should know about, involving removing lots of layers, and careful handling to get to the heart of the matter.

Okay, since I have taken you this far, in the 16th Century only men were allowed to eat artichokes because they were considered an aphrodisiac and thought to enhance sexual power. As a former marketing maven, I have no idea why the California Artichoke Commission isn’t all over that tidbit. Knowing this, I suspect a lot of guys would eat them raw.

Eaten by themselves, chokes don’t have much flavor. Why else would they contain zero fat? I am not aware of anything called the Artichoke Diet, but when it comes to diets, nothing surprises. Chokes need dips to delight. The most common ones are melted butter and mayonnaise.

Think of eating an artichoke as similar to chips and dips – an American staple. The petals are the chips. After a couple of years of not choking on chokes, you will become Californianized. Zounds! Relax, you still can refrain from tofu and alfalfa sprouts.

Small Pleasures

2009-07-11T11:40:00.000-07:00

Life’s small pleasures can enliven as much or more than an endless straining for those elusive peak periods.

Our herb garden is one of my small pleasures. My recipes require lots of fresh herbs. Most days I grab some scissors and walk outside – disappointing our dog, Dutch. Ever the optimist, he always assumes that I come outside just to play with him. Fortunately he hasn’t taken enough offense to dig up or pee on our small plot.

I grow fresh sage, mint, rosemary, chives, oregano and thyme. Rosemary, if you allow it, will become a large bush. Mint, if you allow it, will not only take over your yard, but the neighbor’s as well – on both sides. Originally I made the mistake of planting mint with the rest of the unsuspecting herbs. I’m still finding mint sprouts after thinking I uprooted them two years prior.

I re-planted the mint in two separate locations outside our kitchen alcove, giving them their own space, and am allowing them to become full bushes. As long as they don’t uproot our house, we will have a peaceful, productive co-existence. I have been preparing more lamb lately, so I’m using more mint.

I flunked the tarragon and dill classes, two more favorite herbs. They died a quick death. Or maybe Dutch peed on them behind my back. Herbs I still purchase, in addition to tarragon and dill, are basil and parsley. See my earlier Basil Me post. I use way too much to grow it. Nor do I have enough space for parsley.

I don’t know if herbal medicine works wonders or not. I do know that my HMO wouldn’t pay for it. Until someone comes up with a study to the contrary, PJ and I will remain herbally heavily medicated.

Tour de France Groupie

2009-07-07T09:52:00.000-07:00

Stay-at-home guys, domestic engineer or otherwise, have total control of the TV – at least during the day. Granted, there isn’t much on of interest during the day, unless you are a closet soap opera fan (if so you might want to kept that nugget of information from your best buds), or think Judge Judy is hot. You could watch Regis fawning over himself, or the catfights on The View.

I pass.

But for me, every July, primetime begins at 5:30 AM PST. That is the West Coast start of the Tour de France.

Okay, I don’t get up at 5:30, but close. Already a 6ish riser, in July, grabbing the remote is the first thing I do. Well, I put clothes on first. The broadcast is finished by 9 AM, leaving me with a full day to fulfill my Domestic Engineer Guy duties, work in some writing time, play computer Solitaire, and watch the grass grow.

I am a Tour de France groupie. Yes, I rooted for Lance during his incredible record-breaking run. But I also was a devotee during the three years he “retired.” I believe the Tour to be the #1 athletic challenge in the world, surpassing Ironman, triathlons, 100-mile endurance runs, and 50-year marriages. Any winner awes me, regardless of nationality.

Lance is back, at age 37. That still seems quite young to me. To the Tour, it is not. I’m pulling for him again, and not just because he is American. He is a walking medical miracle, not only because he is a cancer survivor, but because he is a cancer survivor who has won a record seven Tour titles.

After one victory he was quoted as saying, “I believe that the man who works hardest deserves to win. When it is pouring rain and you go ride for six hours with no one on the side of the road cheering you on or booing you, that’s why you get to nights like tonight.”

His above average femur bones’ length, one-third larger heart, and higher capacity lungs don’t hurt. Cap that with a 4-5% body fat at Tour time.

A native Texan, Lance is multi-lingual, fluent in English, French, and Texan.

The next few weeks will tell if the Tour has once again become The Tour de Lance.

You're a Y Chromosome-challenged Guy

2009-06-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

In Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys he writes, “To understand guys, it is essential to remember that, deep down inside they are biological creatures, like jellyfish or trees, only less likely to clean the bathroom.” Too true. But in our simplicity we can be efficient. There’s less to clean by leaving the toilet seat up.

New York Times superstar scriber, Maureen Dowd, doesn’t mince words, titling a recent book, Are Men Necessary? Her mother suggested her title be “Why Men Are Necessary” saying, “Men are necessary for breeding and heavy lifting.” Later Dowd debunks the breeding part with an exchange with Brian Sykes, a leading British researcher on sex chromosomes.
“Are men necesssary? I asked Dr. Sykes
‘Clearly not,’ he replied
Are men necessary? I asked British geneticist Steve Jones.
‘You don’t even need the sex slaves,’ Dr. Jones assured me.
‘You only need their cells in a freezer. You’d have to have a very good electricity supply.’ “

I have a one word response to this - British.

Dowd goes on to write, “The latest research on the Y chromosome shows that my jittery male friends are not paranoid. They are in an evolutionary pratfall…The Y chromosome has been shedding genes willy-nilly for millions of years and is now a fraction of the size of its partner, the X chromosome…Size matters, and experts are suggesting that, in the next one hundred thousand to ten million years, men could disappear, taking Maxim, March Madness and cold pizza in the morning with them.” Great, guys got jobbed from the get-go with one each of the Y and X chromosome. Women were gifted two of the X factor. Plus, the X chromosome has 1098 genes to the Y’s paltry 78. Making matters worse, the Y chromosome is smaller and still shrinking. That alone explains viagra.

What, me worry? My faith in evolution fortifies me. It took this long for our Y chromosome to dwindle to dwarf-like, what’s another one hundred thousand to ten million years of devolution? Besides, if women were born into gene wealth, what’s taking them so long to dominate? (About now, I’m heading for cover to avoid the incoming.)

Leave it to an American to stand up for us Y-types. Dr. David Page of the Whitehead Institute for Biomedical Research in Cambridge, Massachusetts calls himself “the defender of the rotting Y chromosome,” saying “I prefer to think of the Y as persevering and noble…not as the Rodney Dangerfield of the human genome.” Dr. Page later concludes, “The Y married up. The X married down.” That pretty much describes my marriage.

We Y-types are “persevering and noble.” When you consider our starter kit, we have made the most of it. Our Y is wimpier, but when comes to the Olympics, professional sports and heavy lifting, who ya gonna call? Regular Y-guys counter their wimpy Y with Smith & Wessons, Harleys, monster trucks, Hummers, triathlons, and when 40-something is in the rearview mirror, viagra.

Infinite changes notwithstanding, I say why fight osmosis? Let’s take our gene-shedding Y chromosome and fight back, chromosome-boosting in the kitchen. Where else can you dice, mince, chop, grate, pound, whip, peel, boil, broil, roast, flame, fry, crush, mash, toss, stuff, shake and bake? Legally. Bring out your inner-chef and come out of the closest. Just remember to bring an apron.

And women need men for more than sperm and heavy lifting. According to Jill Connor Browne’s The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love women want five things from guys:
Someone to talk to
Someone to fix things
Someone to pay for things
Someone to dance with
Someone to have sex with

Or, in my case, I have engineered a blockbuster trade - cooking in lieu of paying for things.

We have to work with the Y’s and wherefores we were given. Compensating by buying a Hummer doesn’t change anything, other than your tank account.

While I’m at it, let me debunk another myth. Men cannot multi-task. Bull. Any male cook worth his Harley-powered Kitchenaid mixer, multi-tasks every meal. Consider - the cocktails are being sipped, the appetizers are being plated, the wine is breathing, the pie is in the oven, the entrée is rubbed and ready for grilling, the sauce is soon to be assembled, the conversation is two-way, the CDs are mood-setting, the muted football game is in the sight-line, and he’s fantasizing about the post-dessert festivities.

That said, I bow down to my sister-in-law who can process three laundry loads, and prepare a five-course meal for 16, all while talking to three friends on the phone.

Reality Bites

2009-06-23T19:56:00.000-07:00

This is off-message from my usual postings, but now and then life intercedes in a way that gets my attention.

A few days ago I made a quick run to my regular supermarket – Vons – a California chain owned by the mega-chain, Safeway.

I only needed a few items, so I headed for the quick checkout line. Several people were in front of me, and directly in front of me was an elderly, short, Latina woman. I noted nothing else about her until it was her turn to checkout. She placed on the conveyor belt a single ear of corn.

The employee asked her if she had a Von’s Club card, the kind most stores promote, offering discounts for a litany of items each week. She did not. Yet, the corn was on sale for 25 cents an ear – with a Von’s Club card.

She showed me the 25 cents in her hand. Expecting she would have a problem, I began foraging for coins in my pocket.

To the credit of the Von’s employee, he handed her a Von’s Club card application, and rang up the sale of an ear of corn for 25 cents.

I have no context to this story – I know nothing about her. Our lives only crossed for a moment - a moment that gave me pause.

We all need more moments that give us pause, and touch our souls.

Bookish Club

2009-06-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

Like most guys, heretofore your reading tastes have not progressed much beyond espionage novels, the wit and wisdom of Yogi Berra, and fart-joke books.

Maybe writing the great American novel is not on your “to do” list, or any tome for that matter, but there is still time to correct that “C” you earned in English Reading and Comprehension. Just be prepared - there are few male heroes in literature, at least literary literature (as contrasted with commercial literature - think Tom Clancy and John Grisham)*. If you need male heroes, read romance novels. I tried once and did not make it past the first chapter, but my romance-novel-addicted-wife forces me to listen to passages all of the time. She may be trying to tell me something.

For the times you cannot laugh at yourself, read anything by Carl Hiaason, or Dave Barry. For you golf gophers, Hiaason just published a non-fiction rant entitled Down Hill Lie.

If joining a book club appeals, I have bad news - you actually have to read 10-11 books a year and mutter something reasonably succinct other than thumbs up or down, or “hated it.”

If you are a male minority member of your book club, be prepared for the pre-discussion gabfest to range from the latest dog obedience school certificates to the pros and cons of tile versus slate versus limestone kitchen countertops.

After a few years, you too can discuss the subtle distinctions between post-modern and southern gothic literature**. Your vocabulary will finally surpass 10th grade level. This strategy, plus the daily crosswords, will replace some of those dead zone brain cells.

If the group picks The Brothers Karanazov, call in sick. If you are having bouts of depression, don’t read anything by Sylvia Plath.

More bad news - you have to host 1-2 times a year. You could dash out and buy prepared grub 1-2 hours in advance, but where’s the challenge in that? Besides, if you failed to finish the monthly selection, you need to redeem yourself with the spread you prepare.

We usually open three wines, two reds and a white. This further makes for a lively discussion. Better parting hugs, too.

Our book club could more appropriately called a Book, Cooking, and Wine Tasting Club. After eight years we could assemble a pretty top-notch collection of recipes.

* The library shelves are quite bare. But, it would be hard to top the modeling of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, even if he doesn’t cook. Sadly, there are too few Atticus Finches in the world, and in literature.

** Southern Gothic Literature usually deals with the struggles of those oppressed by traditional Southern culture. Southern Gothic authors include Harper Lee, Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, and Carson McCullers. As for Postmodern Literature, I still haven’t a clue. They let me stay in the club anyway. I think it’s because of my cooking.

Pre-Cruise Regimens

2009-05-19T10:59:00.000-07:00

PJ and I are off on a cruise this weekend in the Caribbean. My nephew decided he wanted to get hitched on a beach in St. Lucia. So, you know, family obligations.

Regardless, we are grateful to him and his future bride for giving us another excuse to spend a week with 3500 other people, closely billeted on the world’s largest floating septic tank, surpassed only by aircraft carriers.

The Caribbean islanders call these port-o-call stops “The Invasion of Very Large People Wearing White Nikes.” If you are not large when you board, you will be a few days later.

We are amazed that the happy couple has amassed so many close friends so quickly. I posted a special sign-up page on the Royal Caribbean’s Adventure of the Seas’ website for the “Hans & Tracey St. Lucia Wedding Excursion”. So far 2753 have accepted the invitation. It is a special surprise I arranged for my brother, Hans’ father.

Most importantly, as a veteran of three humongous-ship-cruises, I thought I would share some pre-cruise regimens I have found useful.

· Turn your air conditioner down to 70 degrees. Stay in the house for half an hour, then, if you live in a warmer climate*, go outside for half an hour. Return to your house and repeat this ritual several times a day for the next three days. If you catch a cold…don’t come. If you don’t, you will have built up enough immunity for the cruise. *If from a colder climate, turn on your shower to high heat and stand in the middle of your bathroom without any fans running.

· Buy your favorite adult beverage and drink mass quantities of it over three hours. Vomiting is allowed – you’re in training. Repeat for the next four nights. The key object is to be able to find your key and your room at the end of the evening.

· If married or you have a roommate, move into about 200 square feet or less of space for the next several days. Perform basic living exercises while in the space. Try very hard not to get into each other’s face. Try to find a place to “contribute to the ambiance” discretely. Women will find this easier to do than men. While on the cruise your best bets are the balcony or the bathroom. If billeted in an inside cabin, you’re in foul-air jail.

· Try to go several days without roto-rootering your nose or scratching yourself in your nether region…in public. For guys this is actually impossible. The ship photographers seemingly take pictures of everything. They have no compunction about posting all photos on the ship’s gallery.

· Don’t be bothered that your stateroom attendant makes sculptures out of your pillows, towels or whatever he/she finds available. Hint – do not leave your underwear lying around. They are just angling for bigger tips.

· Visit your local flea market. Practice your negotiating skills. This will prepare you for the island stops and bizarre bazaars. On a cruise stop, paying more than half of the asking price is lame.

· Buy a calypso CD and Bobby Ferrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Practice your favorite Karaoke numbers to the beat of steel drums.

· Find a local all-you-can-eat buffet and visit it several times over the next few days. Consume mass quantities of everything. The goal is to stretch your stomach. Again, if you vomit, that’s fine. You are in training. Vomiting on the cruise, however, is not permitted, especially on the party balcony.

· Dust off your favorite resort attire and get in the mood early. Just don’t wear it in public. You neighbors will talk. On the cruise you will be part of the Brotherhood of Pasty-faced, and Pasty-legged Men Wearing Hawaiian Shirts.

If you follow these pre-cruise regimens, I guarantee that all will have a memorable time.

Grillin' and Chillin'

2009-05-16T10:46:00.000-07:00

This is inaugural weekend for grillin’ and chillin’ – igniting the grill monster, and chillin’ on the patio.

Our dog is especially fond of this annual launch – he knows more pats are in store – his tail in perpetual motion. He is less enthusiastic while I’m around the barbecue. Experience has taught him that something will go awry, so he cowers in his pen while I fume over the flames and flare-ups.

Yesterday I braised (in traditional kitchen fashion) some short ribs with parsnips, red onion, garlic, rosemary, beef stock and zinfandel. Yes, I tasted the zinfandel first; just to make sure it wasn’t spit-out vintage Thursday. Forgive me, for I have zinned.

The side I chose was grill-roasted vegetables with pine nut pesto. While I have an in-door grill, I heard the siren call of the season and decided to grill outside. The vegetables were cubed parsnips, carrots, brussels sprouts (try cubing those), butternut squash, and shallots, with a few thyme sprigs tossed in. Brussels sprouts is one of my anti-guy foods, but mixed in with other veggies is tolerable. I find parsnips pretty bland as well but pine nut pesto can salvage most anything.

Both recipes are from Food and Wine Magazine. I usually faithfully follow a first-timer recipe. Then I begin making changes. Next time - no parsnips in the short ribs recipe*. Maybe sweet potatoes instead – and in the roasted vegetable dish as well.

I like most root vegetables but parsnips, turnips and rutabagas have more subtle flavors – a bit too subtle for my taste. I’ll keep rutabagas in the mix because a veggie with such a great name must be consumed now and then.

The first dance with the grill monster went fairly well – it led, I followed.

Last season I made the mistake of buying some briquettes that were so chemically soaked that they ignited before I even reached for the match, soon spouting more flames than the Shrek dragon. They also threw off my timing. Thinking I needed about 30 minutes for the coals to be ready, I returned to the kitchen for other prep work. Wrong.

I haven’t decided how I will prepare the New York steaks tonight. I have fallen in love with simple technique using a cast iron skillet – searing them in canola oil on the stove, and finishing them (still skilleted) in the oven at 350 degrees for about two minutes per side, with some butter, garlic and thyme. Sea salt is preferred. Maybe tonight I’ll put the skillet on the grill monster. Live on the edge, I always say.

Sunday night I’m doing a whole chicken outside, not beer can, but something similar using white wine as the enema. Sorry – infusion.

PJ is mildly amused each barbecue season. She’s guessing that it will take another 10 years for me to earn my barbecue eagle badge. I have noted that she never ventures near the grill monster. She gets to chill, while I grill.

The good news is that I’m not so old that the singed arm and eyebrow hair won’t grow back.

*There is a reason that the Simon & Garfunkel hit was not entitled “Parsnips, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme”.

Breaking Fast

2009-05-13T09:39:00.000-07:00

I just had one of my favorite breakfasts, and it included a leftover. For the record, my fast lasted 12 hours. That’s enough fasting for me.

The basics are pancetta, scrambled eggs, and dill hollandaise sauce.

Pancetta is Italian bacon - not easy to find. It is cured with salt and spices but not usually smoked. How discernible is pancetta from good old-fashioned American porkers? Very little. But because of its Italian lineage, stores can charge more.

Trader Joes sells four-ounce packages of diced pancetta. Dill hollandaise is a basic hollandaise recipe with 1-2 tablespoons of finely chopped fresh dill added to the blender just prior to slowly pouring in the melted butter.

The dill hollandaise was leftover from an asparagus recipe I prepared for guests over the weekend. The asparagus is sprinkled with olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper and baked in a baking dish at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes. The time depends on the thickness of the stalks. Asparagus doneness is a matter of taste. If you pick up a stalk and it collapses like al dente* spaghetti, it is over-cooked. You won’t even need teeth to process it. Process? That would be eating. Fork-tender is usually a good indicator.

The dill hollandaise is served on the side at the table. It is a rich sauce, so don’t water-board the asparagus with it.

For breakfast, first sauté a couple ounces of pancetta for 4-5 minutes, to a crispness similar to the way you like your bacon. Whip up whatever portion of scrambled eggs is needed for one person, or as hungry as you may be. Blend the eggs and pancetta together until the eggs are done (the whites of the eggs disappear), then top with the reheated dill hollandaise. There is a fair amount of salt in the pancetta and in the dill hollandaise mixture, so this concoction probably doesn’t need any more seasoning.

For two or more, simply adjust the pancetta and scrambled eggs’ portions.

*Al dente is a method of pasta preparation perfected by the noted Italian chef, Al Dente.

Shopping Redux

2009-04-21T16:01:00.000-07:00

Grocery shopping is not an Olympic event. Though now that there are so many guy shoppers and ESPN has so many channels with programming needs, this could be a reality show just waiting for a sponsor. When men get involved, a contest will soon follow. Consider the Food Networks Iron Chef competition.

Ever heard of speed golf? There’s already a grocery bag packing contest, and contests for packing as much food in a cart as you can in a limited timeframe. Why not speed shopping?

But until that time comes, grocery shopping is not for mag wheels and 100-horse-powered carts. If you must set records, compete against yourself. Just remember that there are old ladies and children in the aisle. Most of them have lawyers.

Be patient moving up and down the aisles, even if you’re on a timetable. For many shoppers it is the highlight of their day and they treat it as a special occasion, bordering on a religious experience. Those will be the ones always in front of you.

For guys, it is a hunt (consider it gathering), strictly for pre-determined essentials, with no browsing or impulse buying permitted.

Make a list. Remember to take it with you. Check it thrice. After a fashion (if you forgot the list) you can remember most if not all of the items, especially if you make the trip up and down each aisle. (Be alert - - just when you’ve figured out where most things are, they re-merchandize the store.) I cannot emphasize enough the need to make a list.

First, you’ll be less tempted by spur-of-the-moment purchases, and you can blow right by the end-aisle come-ons. Second, check it again when you think you’re finished. Don’t just scan it, READ IT! Otherwise this drama will play out. You are in the middle of a sauce preparation. You read the next ingredient and realize you forgot to buy it. Sauces are sensitive. Turning off the heat and rushing to the store makes for sorry sauces, let alone the three other courses you were in the midst of preparing. You could send your wife, but if she’s anything like PJ, she’ll take an hour to do what you could do in 15 minutes, and she will return with a bag-full of stuff you don’t need.

Check to make sure she didn’t stow something somewhere before waltzing into the kitchen. Snackers are notorious for hiding snacks.

Foodie Shows

2009-04-02T15:29:00.000-07:00

Food Network can be addictive. I’ve watched my fair share of Emeril Live*, and even use several of his recipes. His Turkey Day turkey is now my standard. Emeril’s recipes can be a bit challenging and lengthy. I would hate to have to clean up after one of his cooking shows. Emeril’s Cowboy Chicken Casserole recipe has 26 ingredients, one of which is his Southwest seasoning requiring another 10 ingredients. Preparation takes three days.

Diners, Drive-ins & Dives is entertaining, and useful for the traveler looking for that quirky place where the locals go. You just have to deal with watching the host.

Sorry, I am not a Rachel Ray fan. A better name for her show would be A Valley Girl Does Dinner.

True confession time - - I’m a Giada groupie, head over heels in like with Giada De Laurentiis, and her show, Everyday Italian. Watching her taste her creations could go on any highlight reel. She can sell me anything, though I stay away from pasta most of the time. Her Stracoto with Porcini Mushrooms (that would be pot roast) has assured me a long-term marriage contract. Each preparation is worth two free get-out-of-the-doghouse coupons.

Food Network is currently programming several shows touting speed and competition - 30-Minute Meals (which seems like it airs 10 times per day), Quick Fix Meals, Iron Chef America, and Food Network Challenge.

Yes, if time is of essence and you know what you’re doing, speed matters.

If, like me, you cringe at the number of ingredients and steps of some recipes, size matters. That competition thing is just jumping on the bandwagon of the popular reality and stress shows. Apparently we feel better about the stress in our lives watching others in stress.

Not for me. Even if I am short of time, I enjoy the joie de vivre of cooking - - except of course those times I muck something up or have forgotten a shopping list ingredient. That’s enough stress for me. If I wanted constant stress in the kitchen I’d become a sous chef in a high-traffic fine dining establishment.

I’m more of a shoo chef, as in get out of my kitchen.

* We chef-wannabees should raise our spatulas to half-mast. Emeril Live is no longer on Food Network.

A Slightly Longer History of the Kitchen and Me

2009-03-18T11:54:00.000-07:00

My road to the kitchen did not begin near one. At a tender young age I was milking cows, raising chickens and tending garden on a small farm outside of Logansport in northern Indiana. I grew up under the guidance of a mostly-employed mother and father. When Dad wasn’t employed, he busted my butt daily with chores around the farm. Mom worked to make ends meet yet still rose every morning before everyone else and went to bed after everyone else. When home, she and the kitchen were inseparable.

I ate just about everything. I don’t recall it being an option. First, there was raw hunger. Farming did that to a young boy. Second, rejecting my mother’s cooking would have displeased my father.

If pressed into duty, I could have boiled water for instant coffee, fried some eggs, or a rasher of bacon. Simple stuff. Mostly I gathered - eggs from the henhouse, milk from the cows, veggies from the garden, or fruit from the orchard. The closest I came to meal preparation involved the separation of chickens from their heads.

Chasing down the fowl became a sport. (There wasn’t a lot to do for entertainment on a farm.) Once captured, I gripped the legs tightly, stretched the neck from two narrow nails atop a block of wood, then separated the head from the body with an axe, preferably a sharpened one. I was always amazed by the prowess of a headless five-pound rooster or hen. If not gripped tightly enough, the bird would flop violently for several minutes. This did not please my mother who was standing by with a tub of scalding water. Plucking feathers and gutting chickens was woman’s work. Mom’s fried chicken was legendary - at least to the end of our driveway.

We spent a lot of our waking hours in food-related activities - irrigating the grazing pastures for the milk-cows, or the meat from a steer butchered each year - planting, fertilizing, weeding, spraying and growing vegetables and strawberries for our roadside stand -nurturing the orchard and standing guard against predator blackbirds - raising chickens for fresh eggs and fried chicken. (There was only one way to prepare chicken - fried.)

This relationship with the land is an art now lost in most of the country, though there is a minor movement back. Barbara Kingsolver’s latest book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, speaks to this. Growing up, the naturalness of the four seasons and the evolution of plant and animal life seemed integrated into whom we were. Sitting down to eat around the kitchen table, or Sunday dinners in the dining room, connected us to each other and to our environment. The kitchen was the center of our family’s lives. We rarely think much about that kind of life until it is gone.

After marriage, PJ and I tag-teamed the kitchen duties. Whoever had the toughest schedule stayed out of the kitchen. One of us (alternately) was both working and taking classes the first eight years of marriage. It was pretty simple fare in those days. Our wine tastes hadn’t progressed much past Almaden Hearty Burgundy. When I formally banded her from the kitchen 20 years ago, it took some serious scrubbing to get the tire tread marks off of the floor after she burnt rubber while exiting.

A Brief History of Guys and the Kitchen

2009-03-13T09:01:00.000-07:00

For you historians out there I thought you’d appreciate a brief history of guys and the kitchen.

Before there was fire, there was beast tartare and sushi. Following fire there was scorched beast tartare and sushi. God sampled scorched beast tartare and was not pleased. So God invented the cook – a guy. Then there was roast beast, fired up rare, medium rare, medium well, and charred – plus sushi. And God said, “This is good”. But God still didn’t touch the sushi.

Man grunted, “This not good”. (Man was not grunting in complete sentences yet.) Hunting all day, risking his life among raptors, and having to return to the cave to cook the beast, made Neanderthal man grumpy. So he pulled Neanderthal woman by the hair into the cave’s kitchen*. This domestic arrangement remained until God created the Weber, Emeril Lagasse, and the Food Network.

*Pulling a woman by the hair into the kitchen is now a felony, except in Texas.

Dressing for Success

2009-03-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

I’m proud to say that I no longer own a suit, and I can’t remember the last time I wore a tie. Still, I usually make an effort to look presentable, something without holes, or food stains, and color coordination on even days.

The other day I grabbed a sweatshirt out of my closet. I thought it was our daughter’s commemorative college sweatshirt that reads: “Dad, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug”. (UC Santa Cruz is not big on college sports - too slimy.)

After chatting with PJ in the kitchen (where my sweatshirt’s front was in full view), I dashed out for a few errands. At Trader Joes while checking out, the cashier commented that her sister had matriculated from UC Santa Cruz. (She didn’t say matriculated, but being the sister of a UCSC grad, I like to think that some of it rubbed off.) We exchanged a few pleasantries and I headed to the car, noting that this sweatshirt was often a conversation-starter.

Something made me look down. I had donned PJ’s sweatshirt that reads, “Mom, UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug”. The Trader Joes’ cashier deserves an award from the political correctness police. Fortunately, the fashion police were not patrolling.

This was not a Freudian slip waiting for a slip-up. Being a Domestic Engineer Guy is not another term for Mr. Mom. And no, I’m not sensitive about it! Besides, I’ve never worn a slip, Freudian or otherwise.

I had four options: return home and re-attire, take off the sweatshirt, accessorize with a purse and scarf, or turn it inside out. I chose the fourth option. Option one wastes gas, option two is not a pretty sight, and I don’t stock my car with female accessories.

I finished my errands, frequently assuming the pledge-of-allegiance position whenever someone was close enough to notice my attire aberration.

Returning home I confronted PJ over her wively duty failure. After so many years of marriage (guys never ask our wives how we look – we’re not metrosexuals), she rarely comments. Conversely, nary a day passes where she doesn’t ask, “How does this look on me?” – close cousins of another entrapping question, “Does this make my butt look too big?”

The more relevant question is, “What was her sweatshirt doing in my closet”? Fair question. In case you were wondering, I am not accustomed to choosing my clothes from her closet. Because I am Laundry Man, the fault is mine. Since our sweatshirts matched in every way but one word, I inadvertently hung her sweatshirt to dry on my laundry line section, which then ended up in my closet. I’m a guy who considers clothing options for about three seconds. Without access to a queer eye for the straight guy, this was a faux pas just waiting to happen.

Maybe I’ll dye her sweatshirt another color. I may not always be color-coordinated, but I’m not colorblind.

Sump Pumping

2009-02-18T17:58:00.000-08:00

The soft-rock group America recorded a hit song in the 70s with the lyrics, “It never rains in Southern California but girl don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours.”

Our home and mortgage are not yet underwater, but parts of the homestead have been underwater during the recent BREAKING NEWS storms.

We have storm drainage issues. Merry Christmas. After a downpour our backyard looks like a duck pond for several hours. Apparently my storm drainage pipes have been feeling neglected and decided to do what our sewage pipes frequently do – refuse passage. I have Tom the Plumber on speed-dial.

Two days ago, Tom the Plumber spent three hours roto-rooting the storm drainage pipeline but could not unclog it. The only permanent solution is to replace the line at a cost substantially more than their three-hour futile effort. Since our family went into a recession long before our nation, I began rooting around for short-term, delaying tactics.

First, I thought about using the tube I bought to siphon the neighbor’s Hummer when gas reached $4.60 a gallon last year. I’ve been a sucker many times in my life, but gas is one thing, ponds are another.

Second, I reasoned that I could stop refilling our dog’s water bowl. He will slurp anything. As an enticement, maybe I could spike the pond with female dog scents. Now if I could just train him to pee over the backyard fence. If he excelled, I could hire him out. He might become a Sump Dog Millionaire*.

Since the need was more immediate, I trolled the aisles at Home Depot looking for a Sump Pump. I encountered fellow trollers. The cheapest one was $78. I hooked it up to two garden hoses (we have a long driveway and the operative storm drains are at its end) and stood by to watch the draining experience. Nothing, not even a little slurp. Expletive deleted. PJ suggested I look at the directions. I hate it when she does that. At least I had not tossed them. Yup, right there in English and several other languages it cautioned that the pump only works in at least four inches of water. Four inches! If I waited that long I could turn our house into a houseboat. Fortunately the storm drain opening was recessed more than four inches. Voila, we had some major sucking going on, and the water recessed.

Now that I have this new gizmo, no doubt this last storm was the swan song for the season. Expletive deleted.

* I apologize for abuse of the pun genre.

Domestic Engineer Guys (DEGs) and Shopping

2009-02-15T12:21:00.000-08:00

Bad news DEGs, we have to shop more. If it helps ease the stigma, I like to say that women shop – guys buy. (Not that women do not buy. DEGs are the family CFOs - we know better.)

If you are scheduling more buying trips, you are also in more lines. I have lousy line karma. Over the years I have just learned to live with it, even while encountering enough new material for a weekly rant.

As I age, I find my patience wearing with the quick-reflex-challenged (people older than I), especially when they are ahead of me at checkouts. It never seems to occur to them to search through their purse or billfold or pants pocket to find their payment option (card, cash, or check) until the items have been checked and totaled. Only then begins the tedious task of filling in the check or sliding the club card and credit card through a gizmo that can check a card’s validity faster than you breathe. The cash-only golden oldies are the most annoying. When presented with a bill for $9.89, they will carefully count out nine dollars and then forage their coin purse, the purse’s bottom, or dig into the pants pocket for loose change. When they’ve finished counting 75 - 85 – 86 – 87 – 88 - 89 cents on the counter, they smugly smile as if they’ve just had a good poop. Not that there’s anything wrong with a good poop.

Last Tuesday I bought a few things at Target. On balance Target does a decent job of staffing checkouts. It is rare, at least during weekdays (this is DEG prime buying time – shorter lines, usually), for Target’s line to be more than two deep. Quickly surveying my options I settled on one. Wrong. I failed to notice the shopper at the register slowly pulling one-dollar bills out of the bottom of a piggy bank. I don’t suppose this lady (daughter in tow) gave any thought to pulling the cash out before she left the house. No, that would be thoughtful and courteous. (Maybe she envisioned a teachable moment for her daughter – “Look honey, money flows from pig’s butts.”) I suppose I should have been grateful she wasn’t counting pennies from Porky. I changed lines, and as I walked out, noted that she was still counting out.

Last Thursday I dropped by CVS for a prescription. I thought my timing was perfect - only one drug addict ahead of me. Wrong. Again. The lady was picking up enough prescriptions to open a small pharmacy. Either that or she is medically a mess. I’m guessing the latter. Worse yet, she had a shopping cart loaded with stuff. I stopped counting at 25 items. At least she wasn’t toting a piggy bank.

DEGs with bad line karma need to learn to nap while standing.

For balance, I have great parking space karma, meaning that I find spaces within a day’s walking distance, and remember which county I parked in.

If I had a choice I would choose better line karma. When you can’t find your car, at least you’re getting more exercise.

First Day of Class Part II

2009-02-05T21:11:00.000-08:00

If you read the last post, you should have noted the Thursday entry – yoga.

When it comes to yoga, I’m back in first grade, and it’s a language foreign. At least the body part terms are familiar.

There are several branches of yoga: Raja, Karma, Jnana, Bhakti, Hatha, and Yoda. Okay I made up that last one. But the Yoda’s moves in Star Wars’ movies must have been some very advanced yoga. Then there are beginning, intermediate and advanced stages. I have no idea what branch my LA Fitness branch subscribes to or what stage. Regardless, beginners walk in and crawl out.

I have now discovered another form of exercise besides marathons that our bodies are not made for – yoga.

You don’t need much to take a yoga class, other than loose-fitting clothes and a personal mat. You wouldn’t want to take a culture of fitness gym mats. It helps if you have been doing some kind of exercise other than lifting a fork to feed your face.

Yoga is becoming pretty popular in the United States, but the Vatican does not approve, declaring in 1989 that Eastern practices such as Zen and yoga can “degenerate into a cult of the body.” Clearly my body can degenerate, but become cultist? Given the looks of us lately, we could use some more time cultivating our bodies.

Some of the yoga positions are pretty simple, thankfully. My favorite is the Corpse Pose. You assume the position of a corpse, though still breathing through your nose - thankfully. The Plank Pose looks like a push-up but you have to remain pushed up 10 minutes. Maybe it just seems that way. Breathe through your nose. The Child’s Pose looks like a Muslim’s afternoon prayers, except that you have to remain prayerful for some time with your butt touching your heels. The Standing Forward Bend is bending over and placing your palms on the floor, without bending the knees. Breathe through your nose. And hell no, I couldn’t do that (the palming the floor part), though I came a lot closer by the end of class. The Cobbler’s Pose is sitting with your knees flung wide apart and the bottoms of your feet becoming very friendly. The Mountain Pose is simple, standing erect, arms to the sides.

If these were the only poses, yoga would be my new best friend.

Not so fast. There’s Plow Pose, Bridge Pose, Tree Pose, King Dancer Pose, Lotus Pose, Supine Spinal Twist, and something that looks like an upside down victory sign. For the Tree Pose you stand on one leg with hands pressed together and bring your other foot up until the sole is flat against the inner standing thigh. At least it wasn’t the outer thigh. Breathe through your nose.

For the King Dancer Pose stand again on one leg (right), bend forward at the waist and thrust your right arm straight out. With your left arm grab your left foot and pull it up past your ear. Not really, but you get the idea. Change legs, rinse, repeat. Breathe through your nose.

For the Bridge Pose, start on your Corpse Pose (good so far) and bring the knees and lower legs vertical to the floor, feet flat. Then raise your torso until your back is inverted, shoulders and head flat on the floor. I think this is called getting your back up. Breathe through your nose.

One pose reminded me of the splits cheerleaders did in high school to gain our vote for head cheerleader. I didn’t try it then, either.

There is another pose where you are prone and then you make your body simulate the legs of a rocking chair. Guys need more than a jockstrap for this position.

Fortunately we weren’t asked to do the Lotus Pose. It begins as a Cobbler’s Pose but then you entangle your legs, positioning each foot on top of the opposite thigh. You will first need surgery.

All in all, I did pretty well. I only had to ask the instructor four times to pop back in a dislocated shoulder or hip.

This is a popular class, thirty in all. I was the only male. I am so there. No, I didn’t strain my eyes staring. My eye ogling was watching the instructor out of the corners of my eyes so as not to embarrass myself and end up with my right foot behind my left ear. I think that move is in the advanced class.

Namaste.

Breathe through your nose.

First Day of Class

2009-02-03T12:52:00.000-08:00

In addition to browsing the Internet, I have been browsing a book entitled, Younger Next Year – Live Strong, Fit, and Sexy Until You’re 80 and Beyond. Though the book has been out for several years, another aging-defiant friend only recently recommended it. With my next birthday at hand, I’m thinking, “great, no more birthdays.”

Could this be Benjamin Button’s bible?

One of authors’ tenets is to exercise strenuously six days a week. This gave me pause. My 2-3 workouts per week did not stop the aging process?

I perused the class offerings at my local LA Fitness and noted a daily cycling offering. Since I was already doing the recumbent bike for 40-45 minutes 2-3 days a week with above-moderate resistance, I thought cycling a step up, but doable.

I just finished my first class. I did not die, though my heart did text me several times, suggesting I sit down or slow down.

Those people are animals, and 75% are women. For the record I never stopped, and I never slipped below moderate resistance. I even stood up a few times, though not for long. There was that heart-texting thing.

I glanced at the wall clock once thinking we must be about three-quarters through. Nope – fifteen minutes. Expletive deleted.

Our butts are not compatible with bicycle seats. That’s probably why they goad you into standing up, frequently.

The petite, perky, zero-body-fat female instructor used a series of hand signs (her headset mic wasn’t working) to signal speed, resistance, sitting or climbing. I grew to dislike her intensely.

This is the first week of my new regimen. It may also be the last.
· Monday – 40-minute recumbent bike, and stretching.
· Tuesday – cycling and stretching.
· Wednesday – 40-minute recumbent bike, stretching, 1-2 miles on the treadmill, mostly uphill, and several weight machines. One-hour nap.
· Thursday - yoga. Two-hour nap.
· Friday – cycling, and stretching. Three-hour nap.
· Saturday – 45-minute recumbent bike, stretching, and 3 miles on the treadmill, mostly uphill. Four-hour nap.
· Sunday – Stay in bed.

I’m thinking that by Saturday noon my body will not be speaking to me. Well, it will, but not nicely.

Le Tour de France need not worry. I’m targeting Le Tour de Cul de Sac.

Cooking class, anyone?

Smitten by Bittman

2009-01-28T09:47:00.000-08:00

I don’t stock a large library of cookbooks. I learned several years ago that I was more intrigued by recipes from varied sources such as the Food Network, food blogs, Los Angeles Times’ Food Section, Bon Appetit, Cuisine At Home, or Sur la Table cooking classes. I’ve even clipped recipes from food ads.

I file them in 15 separate folders with labels such as Fish/Seafood, Lamb/Pork/Veal, Pasta/Rice, Sauces/Seasonings/Stock, and other staples like Chicken, Beef, Soups, Salads/Dressings, and Vegetables. I also have a Miscellaneous file for, well, miscellaneous. Every year I survey the folders; circular-filing those recipes I haven’t used in some time, no longer inspire, or are so food-stained they are illegible. (A well-seasoned recipe is almost edible.)

Using a few recipes from a $30.00 cookbook is not a great ROI (return on investment).

The one cookbook I reference most often is Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything. Mark, know as The Minimalist, is a guy’s cook. He, reputedly, does most of his work out of his Manhattan apartment’s minimalist kitchen. His recipes are quite accessible, and you don’t need to drive 50 miles to a specialty store or have something shipped from Sri Lanka.

I have several Emeril Lagasse recipes but he could be called a Maximumist. The man uses LOTS of ingredients, and equipment. I often need a nap in-between preparation steps.

When you do come across an ingredient, either foreign to you or requiring you to pay for foreign shipping, I have two suggestions. First, buy a book such as Food Lover’s Companion by Sharon and Ron Herbst. I find it indispensable. It lists more than 6,700 foodie terms, describing cooking techniques, herbs, spices, ingredients, etc.

Another option is switcheroo.com, The Cook’s Thesaurus. Type in the unfamiliar term and the site gives you options without requiring you to learn several other languages.

Mark, a frequent guest on The Today Show, writes a blog for the New York Times – bitten.blogs.nytimes.com. I recommend it. You will find it linked on the right side of this blog’s opening page under About Me.

But even Bitten is smitten by the cookbook bug; touting 50 cookbooks he cannot live without. Trust me, you can live without them.

I wonder where he keeps them in his minimalist kitchen.

Job Titles

2009-01-26T16:23:00.000-08:00

Over my previous-life-career my business cards listed many titles. When I left business I vowed to never ever be a card carrier again. Then I got these hair-brained book-writing ideas and once again it seemed I needed something for identification purposes. Flashing my driver’s license at conferences or informal gatherings isn’t in the cards. Besides, there is always that mug shot worthy of a police station line-up.

My current business card reads: Writer, Domestic Engineer, Kept Man. But I wear many titles in my Domestic Engineer Guy role. Just to list a few:

· Man of the House
· Don of the Domicile
· Dean of Dishes
· Executive Chef
· Manager of Toilet Maintenance
· Vice President of Marketing
· Lord of the Laundry
· House Stud
· Vice President of Finance
· Sommelier
· Baron of the Barbecue
· Zen master of the Iron

One title that warrants more time than I bargained for is Executive Assistant to my ATM. Those honey-do lists that used to be reserved for weekends, now stretch 24/7, and entail much more than traditional projects. PJ is constantly asking me to remind her to do such things as:

Check her email
Buy a sympathy or birthday card
Take her prescriptions
Call a friend (hers)
Schedule her hair appointment

The other time-consuming title is Social Secretary. Actually I’ve worn that hat most of our marriage. I am simply better organized. All friends and family social events, anniversaries, birthdays, vacation/weekend scheduling, planning, and executing are mine to remember.

We are timeshare owners and just returned from an exchange week in Carmel, CA. What helped sell us on timeshares were the kitchens. We pack in the food and rarely eat out. This past trip I not only made all of the arrangements but I selected a week’s worth of recipes, made two separate lists (1) stuff to bring that we already owned, and (2) stuff to buy. I think this is called advance planning. When it comes time to load the car I have filled four large boxes as well as a cooler on wheels.

PJ just has to be packed and primped by departure time. She begins the packing three days in advance. I pack in 15 minutes.

Seems like a fair distribution of duties to me.

Oh yes, another title: Chauffeur. The movie will called Driving Ms PJ.

Returning to Normal*

2009-01-08T12:44:00.000-08:00

I suspect I’m one of the luckier ones – only a four-pound gain over the holidaze. Consider it like a glaze - as temporary and absorbing as what you use to marinate meats.

If I were to lay out all of my recipes prepared over two weeks I suspect I’d be astounded by the quantities of flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, broth/stock, cream, and store-bought breads. These bad boys metastasize and attach to your arteries and intestines like Spackle.

I’m not in denial about the adult beverage intake I just refuse to think about it.

My cooking clothing gained some weight, too. But it was a tasty gain. (Guy’s still struggle with that splatter-guard (apron) thing.)

We throw caution and calories to the wind during holidays, going from once-a-week desserts to every night – from once-a-week appetizers to every night – from two portions per plate to three - from once-a-month baked (or bought) snacks to 2-3 temptations per day.

If you’re like my household, Santa isn’t the only annual visitor. Say hello to the Cold Family. Guests usually come bearing gifts, including germs. There should be a new rule – guests can only cross your threshold after they’ve been cleared by the CDC (Center for Disease Control). The cold endemic precludes any visits to LA Fitness to fend off encroaching pounds.

Last Monday was cold Turkey time, and not just the leftovers. The offending recipes were drowned in a vat of holiday grease. If any of the calorie-laden leftovers had not been consumed, they were tossed. (I found some week-old mashed potatoes this morning.) I whipped up some fresh Basil Oil Dressing (see previous blog about Basil) for the regular rigueur of salads. Seasonings replace sauces, though vodka remained the preferred sauce of the day. The bread bin was emptied. Desserts will return to their regularly scheduled birthdays. The third plated item returns to Friday and Saturday nights. Snacks are banned, other than the ones PJ sneaks at work, or when I’m not looking.

Just to make the ladies fume, after three days (and two gym visits) my four-pound holiday bonus was eradicated. Women hate guys for that, even while preferring us studly. But it also might have something to do with that snack sneaking – a habit stuffed into their genes, and jeans.

Drum roll please – introducing an occasional feature of the Domestic Engineer Guy Blog – the Male Moron Award. In reviewing all of the recent candidates, it was pretty easy to settle on the first occasional honoree – Heath Campbell. Heath (no doubt not named after the Heath Bar) said that he named his son after Adolf Hitler because he liked the name and because (based on a Yahoo News story) “no one else in the world would have that name.” Heath boy – there is a reason that quote is true.

The Saudi judge who told an eight-year-old girl that she could not divorce her 58-year-old husband came in a close second. The girl’s 58-year-old husband takes the bronze.

Check out future blogs for some recession-survival tips, even if they verge on depressing. It will be a while before we create our new normal.

If you have a Male Moron nominee, or a survival tip, weigh in - after you’ve lost that holidaze glaze.

* Not Normal, IL

Sugar, Sugar, Sugar & Spice Pecans

2008-12-18T09:15:00.000-08:00

This is my family’s favorite holiday treat. I also bake enough to treat the neighbors. It helps the neighborhood peace and goodwill, plus makes up for those tools you never returned, and your dog pooping on their lawns. They will begin saying nice things to you – like “I like your nuts.”

I’m not sure where I found this but it might have been an old LA Times Sunday Magazine edition about 10 years ago.

If recipes were more aptly named based on ingredient portions, this one should be renamed Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar, Sugar & Spice Pecans.

Yields about 5 cups.

2 cups water
4 cups sugar, plus ¼ cup extra (Yes, I know, this is over a quart of sugar)
4 cups pecan halves*
¼ cup packed dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg (spice rack stuff works fine)
½ teaspoon salt

Pre-heat oven to 450 degrees.

Pour water and 4 cups of sugar in a large saucepan, heat to boiling. Add pecans, cook for 3 minutes. The sugar is magically liquidated. They will be coated in a syrupy glaze. They will be cheerful pecans.

As the pecans are hot tubing it with the sugar babes, in a medium bowl, thoroughly mix the extra ¼ cup of sugar, brown sugar, spices and salt.

Drain pecans, pour into another medium bowl, and then coat with the sugary, spicy mixture. Distribute pecans onto parchment-lined sheet pans. Arrange pieces so they are not touching (sort of). Finger licking allowed.

Toast in oven for 10 minutes (see tips). Remove from oven, cool completely and store up to 2 weeks in an airtight container at room temperature (as if they would last that long).

Tips:
· Every oven is different. After some trial and error (mostly errors), I now bake at 400 degrees for 9-10 minutes. The goal is to avoid charring on one side, though a little matters little. (That would be the bottom side.)
· Parchment paper is VERY important. I learned the hard way.
· Don’t worry about total separation of the pecans. Pecans are affectionate nuts. Besides, they are just looking for their better halves.
· No calorie or fat counts provided. But as mentioned in my previous post, it IS a good thing that Christmas comes only once a year.

*Guys might be tempted to buy pecans still encased in nature’s shell. If so, I recommend spreading them out on the garage floor and attacking them with a sledgehammer. It helps release holiday stress.

Getting Lit

2008-12-16T14:34:00.000-08:00

The annual outdoor lighting tradition is never a jolly chore, even if chugging spiked eggnog. But we have appearances to maintain in our cul de sac. Boycotting the fantasy façade would affect neighborhood karma, and the exchanging of tasty treats.

Domestic engineer guys just need to suck it up; the drill, not the eggnog. Your ATM machine loves peace and goodwill toward neighbors as well as arriving home and seeing her kingdom magically lit.

I deck out a fence, patio, balcony, trim, bay window, two posts, four bushes, and three hedges. I’m tired just writing this. The back of the house faces the street below, while the front faces the cul de sac. And we have a LONG driveway.

At each season’s end I bag the strands and label them, such as Back Fence, or Driveway - East Hedge.

Each new season I unravel the strands never remembering which end I began with or how certain sections connected. That combo package of the bay window and front posts always renders decidedly un-seasonal expletives.

If I were a real engineer or similarly anal, I would have diagramed the entire schematic into a computer file, printed and stored it with each strand and its proper bag. The replacement parts would be labeled and neatly stashed somewhere on or near the tool bench. Sure, and when pigs fly.

Then there are the sexually-active strands. No matter how carefully I layer them in the bags each year, they still entwine and nestle up during their annual hibernation. Untangling them is harder than separating slices of prosciutto.

Four hours after beginning, near dusk, I’m ready to power up, without fanfare. No Tim the Toolman exploding the fuse-box, or staging the ceremony to the soppy sounds of Debbie Boone’s You Light Up My Life. No, I connect them at five different fuse-box outlets, minimizing electrocution, while singing the Stones, “If you start me. If you start me up I’ll never stop.” Wishful singing. But like Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation, something always goes wrong. At least one strand refuses to cooperate, and lights my fuselage, enough to “make a grown man cry”. Apparently the strands’ planned obsolescence accelerates in the bags during hibernation, as well as bond with each other. I’d call the manufacturer but it’s a long distance call to China. Instead, I get lit.

The next day I make another Ace Hardware run and replace the defective fuses. It is a good thing that Christmas comes but once a year.

Don’t get me started on what the Christmas tree lights do with each other during the off-season.

Happy Holy, Holly Days!

Breakfast of Champions

2008-12-04T21:11:00.000-08:00

For the literate and/or the ancient, Breakfast of Champions has dichotomous meanings. For the ancient, it is an ageless slogan for a cereal – Wheaties, hyped on 1950s TV by Bob Richards, an Olympic pole vault champion. For the literate and somewhat less ancient, fellow Hoosier Kurt Vonnegut borrowed the phrase to entitle a novel about decidedly non-athletic characters.

Recalling the Wheaties commercials will date yourself (and have a good time when you do – budumpbump).

But I digress.

I am a big breakfast champion. My theory is simple. If my last meal was consumed sometime between 6-8 PM the previous evening, waiting until Noon to power up with some protein starves the body. Granted, most of us could use some starvation now and then. But our body is not too crazy about that treatment. Just ask it. If like me, your body will talk back to you. Twelve hours between substantive meals is too long. A latte and a bagel just won’t get you past the mid-morning snack-attack urge.

Given the choice, I scramble in the morning. Sometimes I wait until nine or so, after feeding my coffee habit before 7:00. When I do, I am rarely hungry for loading up at lunch, and sometimes even skip it.

There isn’t much that cannot be combined with scrambled eggs. Egg scrambles are akin to casseroles. Once eggs get out from behind their shells, they are very user-friendly and compatible. You don’t even have to make a big production each morning and cook everything from scratch. Leftovers were made for scrambled eggs. Here is a list of ingredients I have included in scrambled eggs at one time or another:

Steak (any kind)
Hamburger
Bacon
Sausage
Pancetta
Salmon (smoked and regular)
Salsa
Roasted red peppers
Sun-dried tomatoes
Onions (chives, yellow, and scallions)
Tomatoes
Broccoli
Potatoes
Asparagus
Corn
Parsley
Oregano
Basil
Tarragon
Dill
Thyme
Cream cheese
Cheese (mostly parmesan and cheddar)

With all of these flavors, who needs salt?

If you are cholesterol-challenged, use Egg-Beaters or your supermarket’s equivalent. In Southern California, the Safeway-owned Vons sells a brand called Best of Egg. I do not have a cholesterol problem but I still mix the Vons brand with 1-2 regular artery blockers. Do not scramble your eggs in butter or bacon grease. Use olive oil.

Frequently, when I wait until 9-10 AM, I go egg-less and just reheat some protein and vegetable leftovers. My body is not biased.

If this sounds like an Atkins morning, you’re right. Though not a devotee, I do agree with their program’s approach to jumpstarting my day. Pole vaulting is another matter. Heights make me queasy.

Kosher Turkey and Kosher Salt

2008-12-01T13:39:00.001-08:00

Chalk this year’s Thanksgiving up to another notch on the learning tree. First, full disclosure - I am not Jewish. But I thought buying a kosher turkey seemed like a healthy idea. My local Trader Joe’s sold both a brined and non-brined kosher turkey. Since this was my year to switch from brining to a salted turkey, I bought a non-brined one.

Once home I searched fore and aft for the package of giblets, even sticking my head into the cavity. (It was a big bird.) No neck or giblets. Apparently those fowl parts are not kosher. I can live with that, though I’m unclear how turkeys live without them, or why the processor couldn’t have put the fowl parts into a hermetically sealed bag.

TJ’s loses a point from the consumer communication police for not informing us kosher-challenged Gentile-types.

Whole Foods gets a good-guy point for giving me a large neck and two portions of giblets, free of charge. Trust me, they made up for it from my other purchases.

Apparently kosher birds are already salted, but I had no way of knowing if it was as much as my salting recipe called for. Regardless, I followed the recipe – which called for kosher salt. Good call. The bird was the best ever – at least based on a survey of four.

I graded myself an “A” for the entire menu – based on the moans-and-groans meter. The frizzled leeks were fine, but next time I’m going for frizzled onions (sliced VERY thin, and deep-fried). I like leeks (onion’s second cousin) but I like the stronger taste of fried onions even better with this dish.

I used the turkey leftovers two ways – first as Turkey Salad Sandwiches (with pecans, red grapes, and tarragon), and second as a Turkey Pot Pie. Like the earlier “Not your Mama’s Green Bean Casserole” this could be renamed “Not Your Mama’s Turkey Pot Pie,” This recipe includes pearl onions, celery, cremini mushrooms, red boiling potatoes, leeks, and peas. It’s also a perfect use for leftover turkey stock. Now we have Turkey Pot Pie leftovers.

I’ve had so much turkey I’m beginning to sport a turkey waddle. (Also called turkey chin.) But that could be an age thing. I always thought waddle was how one walked when treating every day like a holiday.

I’m not sure about the weight gain on turkey day. I try not to torture myself daily. But it was a four-pounder holiday – the ultimate leftovers.

Our Fowl Play Day

2008-11-24T09:43:00.000-08:00

One of the signs that you are settling in as a Domestic Engineer Guy is changing the Thanksgiving menu each season. My Thanksgiving menus have become “one and out” recipes. It is not about “been there, done that” or rendering a recipe into something only the dog would eat – been there, done that. It is hard to resist the annual deluge of Turkey Day temptations from the likes of Food Network, Bon Appetit Magazine, and the LA Times food section.

My bias remains for variations on American traditions, rather than something of foreign origin, or with sprouts, tofu, or couscous, decidedly non-guy foods.

I know that deep-frying a turkey is a guy thing, but I don’t recommend it, unless you have a back forty. Those firefighter folks suggest that if you are chromosome-bound to the dangers of turkey deep fryers, that you do it at least 20 feet from your house. A football field length would be better. If you go that route, check your homeowners insurance. If covered, at least you can dress up like a fireman, which was your career goal in elementary school.

Basically I move into the kitchen, open up a bottle of wine and sip my way through the day.

This year’s menu:
...Roast Salted Turkey. I have been brining the last few years. This recipe received more favorable feedback from LA Times readers than any recipe in their turkey history. Worth a try. I’ll partially stuff it with chopped onions, celery, carrots and a sprig or two of thyme. I’m still thinking about the gravy but leaning towards a recipe with turkey stock, pancetta, shallots, white wine, rosemary and sage.
...Not Your Mama’s Green Bean Casserole. I found this one on Food Network: green beans (I use haricot verts) shallots, two kinds of mushrooms, thyme, sage, sherry, cream, and frizzled leeks. Frizzled leaks? Frizzled is usually reserved for the cook. Frizzing is basically a frying technique. This replaces that canned French onion stuff.
...Bourbon-Walnut Sweet Potato Mash. This one is so sweet it will make your mouth pucker. Consume in small bites.
...Parsley, Sage, and Celery Cornbread Dressing. I was going to pass on the dressing, in an effort to minimize our waists and waste. Then PJ, the family traditionalist, threatened to go buy something in a Stovetop box.
...Pumpkin Cheesecake with Pecan Praline Topping. It is as good as it sounds.

I am still thinking about the wines for our feast, but something red. Hey, I’m a guy.

The common ingredient thread this year is sage. Sage is one of the healthiest herbs in my herb garden. Based on my herb garden, maybe next year I’ll do a rosemary theme. The rosemary bush is on steroids.

Yes, this is a 2-3 pound gain day. It’s a good thing we are only thankful once a year.

Basil Me

2008-11-20T13:48:00.000-08:00

After returning from my recent trip to New Orleans, PJ expressed angst over envisioning my plane crashing, not because of losing me, but because she didn’t know how to make my basil dressing. It is always good to know where one stands in a relationship.

I confess to more than a fondness for basil. I would grow it in my herb garden except that I use so much that I would have to turn our entire hillside backyard into a basil plot. But then the dog wouldn’t have a place to dig.

I use basil lots of ways but two favorites are as a replacement for lettuce on sandwiches, and on beefsteak or heirloom tomatoes sprinkled with kosher or sea salt and pepper. Then there is pesto. I never buy pesto. My favorite lamb topping is a mint-basil pesto recipe.

I never buy salad dressings anymore. They are too easy to whip up fresh, whether a simple vinaigrette and all its variations, or my basil dressing, the easiest of them all. I read it somewhere and memorized it. If I can memorize a recipe upon one viewing then you know it’s easy. The basic ingredients are:

3 cups of lightly packed basil leaves (I discard the thickest stems)
2 cups olive oil

· Combine in a blender until finely chopped (do not puree)
· Pour mixture into a pan and heat over medium heat.
· Stir occasionally until the mixture bubbles around the pan sides.
· Remove from heat and let cool for about an hour.
· Line a strainer with two layers of cheesecloth and strain into a large enough storage container.
· Store the basil oil dressing in the refrigerator and use on any number of lettuce varieties found in grocery stores.

This quantity lasts us a week. You can vary these portions as necessary based on usage. It will solidify in the refrigerator, so take it out at least 30 minutes prior to use.

It is that simple. PJ takes half of the mixture to work along with other salad fixings. Sometimes I get the containers back.

After you try this you will understand her sense of loss if something happens to me.

Back Online

2008-10-06T09:27:00.000-07:00

My blogging has been a bit light of late. Okay, it has been nonexistent. I have an alibi. For several weeks the Fraternal Order of the Wedding Planners kidnapped me and forced me to channel Franck of “Father of the Bride” fame, though without the effeminate German accent.

The duel roles of planner, and father of the bride, temporarily sucked all of the scribing air out me. To say nothing of spending half my time in the kitchen, planning, purchasing, and preparing major feasts for as many as twelve.

For the record I am not switching careers, nor opening a wedding consulting practice.

I’m off to visit family and friends in Indiana this week. My blog will resume its regularly scheduled scribing next week.

Soon after I will be launching a new charitable website titled “Keith and Pam Wedding Debt Fund.” If that doesn’t work, I’m submitting a bailout bill to Congress.

Maintenance

2008-08-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

I’m just easing into a Tom Robbins’ tome entitled Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates. This is my first Tom Robbins book, best known for Momma Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowgirls. Or maybe it was Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.

Recumbent biking at the gym the other day, I came across one of those passages worthy of a dog-ear. Robbins’ lead character, Switters, was lamenting about the daily drudgery of showering, shaving, and brushing, wondering why someone couldn’t invent self-cleaning teeth. This character must have channeled me. Switters then said, “There’s birth, there’s death, and in between there’s maintenance.” It reminded me of one of my favorite sayings, “Life is one long, endless, forced march into enemy territory.” I’m more upbeat than that – but there are days…

Minimally the Robbins’ truism is a perfect metaphor for houses. They’re built and everything after that is maintenance, or they will implode. Properly maintained, houses out-live us. What’s that other relevant saying? Oh yes, “Life is not fair.” – author unknown.

I hand over much of our household maintenance to men-with-cracks. It has something to do with competence, theirs versus mine. Even so, domestic engineer guys should protect their live-in ATMs from having to deal with such eyesores.

Last week, one of the companies who had done some prior maintenance called to tweak us about an annual checkup. Not the plumbing checkup, but heating and air. For free, of course. I almost said “No thanks”. Then I remembered – we’re hosting our daughter’s wedding reception at the end of September. A household audit might lessen the possibility of the house imploding that weekend.

But in this play you know the outcome before the first act. The serviceman spotted six things that needed maintenance before I finished saying, “There’s the heater, and the air conditioner is around back.”

He frowned a lot, frequently reminding me that he was just giving me the facts (and figures he referenced from his fees-for-services corporate-rate-bible). His estimate for the “necessary” maintenance was over $850. After he added the discount. Where is the equivalent of an HMO for households?

I thanked him for his cheery prognostication and said I’d be in touch. It’s not that his frowning had no merit – it did. The heater is original with the house, now 25 years young. The air conditioner is a babe comparatively – 18 years old, barely out of puberty.

I called a good friend who is a stickler for due diligence of such services. He had earlier recommended a plumber who charged 40-50% less than the branded boys. Sure enough, he had a referral. They showed up and did the identical maintenance for $95.00.

I’m wondering if they do weddings.

Shakin' in My Booties

2008-07-29T21:08:00.000-07:00

We SoCal-types are so laissez-faire when dealing with our faults (some might say too lazy or too fair). We have so many that we can’t escape barbs and jars that come our way. Almost any fault map of Southern California looks like a vein road map of our bodies – lines everywhere.

I was forty minutes into my LA Fitness routine when the most recent quake hit this morning. I felt a bit of a movement and sensed an incoming. Seconds later, the gym jolted and shook. I, and about 50 other sweaters looked up, and around, and then continued our routines. Yawn. Only one, a forty-something woman, begin walking rapidly for the exit, phone glued to her ear. The local TV stations immediately switched into 24/7 Breaking News mode, while searching for any thing breaking.

The epicenter was about 20 miles east-north-east of Anaheim Hills, and initially registered a 5.8 on the scare scale (later downsized to 5.4). Cruise ships and Amtrak rock more than that. Regardless, I cut my workout a little short (it’s nice to have excuse now and then) because it suddenly dawned on me that a year ago we had tiled half the downstairs. Arriving home, all was well – no cracks to the naked eye. A couple of artifacts had fallen over as well as one DVD floor rack.

Later, before cameras, a Los Angeles city councilman calmly blathered that experts project within the next decade a San Andreas Fault fracture measuring from 7.9 to 8.1. That was unsettling. For the uninformed, anything over a 7.0 is a MASSIVE earthquake.

I recall that during my first year in Los Angeles, after an extended stay with a certain Uncle, I was rudely welcomed to SoCal with a 6.5 quake at 6 AM on my birthday. The epicenter was 30 miles north of my studio apartment in West Los Angeles. It bounced me out of my twin bed. I crawled back in and went back to sleep, only to later be awakened by a panicked call from my betrothed, PJ, from her dorm at UCLA. She was shook up a bit more.

In another 4-5 years PJ and I will be off to our sunset years’ nest, though it won’t be the faults’ fault. Where to, we do not yet know. But our research will include fault maps.

Meanwhile, I’m ignoring The Big One’s inevitability, while hoping it holds off until we get the hell outta here.

My Saturday Morning Grind

2008-07-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

If your morning java tastes are now Starbucks-educated, you have options. Go online to www.coffeeproject.com. Order a coffee roaster. I have the $75.00 Freshroast machine. $75.00? Work with me here. The Coffee Project sells over 35 varieties of green beans. Yes, coffee beans are green when harvested. I buy the organic Costa Rican La Minita. Green beans are half the price of roasted beans at any coffee cafe. If you drink a fair amount of coffee, the roaster will pay for itself in no time.

Soon you will have really fresh roasted coffee every morning. Think aromatherapy. On Saturdays I roast up enough beans to last a week and store them in an airtight ceramic container left easily accessible on my countertop. I was never much of a Starbucks fan, especially their coffees-of-the-day. After roasting my own for several years, there is no comparison.

For a finer, more consistent grind, use a burr coffee grinder rather than a standard grinder. They can be a bit pricey but you don't need the top-of-the-line. The Coffee Project offering is $149.00. I bought mine at Costco for under $50.00. Shop around. A burr has multiple grind-settings from coarse to fine. If you like the flavor of coarse sea salt, when a recipe calls for finely ground sea salt, you don't have to dash out and buy it.

If your wife comes down one morning and orders a grande, skim, decaf, triple-shot, sugar-free, almond latte, no foam, with two Splendas, and just a dash of nutmeg, tell her to get up 15 minutes earlier and stop off at a coffee cafe on the way to work. Then get very worried about what recipe requests may be coming next. You're a cook, not a barista. Since she barely makes it out the door on time anyway, those requests will cease.

Master of the House

2008-07-17T12:50:00.000-07:00

Domestic Engineer Guys wear several new titles: Man of the Mansion, Don of the Domicile, Dean of Domesticity, and Master of the House.

The Master of the House title comes with several new benefits:

1. Time for computer solitaire.
2. Time to calculate your carbon footprint.
3. Time to watch the World Darts and Miniature Golf Championships on ESPN.
4. Time to catch up on the latest celebrity news - Tom cruises in Timbuktu, Brad pits in Patagonia, Britney spears brats in Bavaria, and Paris does the Hilton.
5. Time to balance your home's yin and yang and infuse it with cosmic dragon's breath.
6. Time to perfect your air guitar skills.
7. When assembling products made in China, you will have the house to yourself and can expand your colorful vocabulary. Just make sure you keep the windows closed.
8. Time to prattle and pontificate on that blog you've fancied yourself launching.

Like President Bush, domestically you now become "The Decider." These and other major decisions fall to you:

1. Stacking the dishwaher your way.
2. Which way the paper towels and toilet paper unroll.
3. How many clothes to cram into the washer.
4. Whether to iron from the tapered end or the squared end of the ironing board.
5. Bartlett or Bosc pears.
6. Paper, plastic, or BYOB (Bring your own bag).
7. When the bananas have turned and need to be tossed.
8. When something needs repaired or serviced, and offered a service time, you decide, morning or afternoon.
9. During the day the toilet seat stays up, though you might want to set a timer.

Don't become too smug. Your ATM gets home at 6:00, and she may have had a bad day.

Green Guilt Bumps

2008-07-12T09:41:00.000-07:00

My most recent newspaper column was entitled It’s Not Easy Being Green. I’m learning how true that is.

Those long-lasting, plastic-replacing Vons supermarket bags I bought are still off the radar screen. In Forrest Gump-speak, I forget some.

During the first twice-a-week food foraging trips, I left the abode without the bags, requiring return trips. Wasted gas. Guilt bumps. Aha, I’ve got it. I’ll permanently place the bags in the backseat.

During the second twice-a-week foraging trips, I left the bags in the backseat - - something about out of sight, out of mind. That’s being charitable. Regardless, more guilt bumps.

Solution - - put the bags in the front seat. If that doesn’t work, I may drape them around my neck. They are a bit big for head-covers.

Vons shopping strategy now operative, my next brain fart was to forget to take a Vons bag on forays to non-Vons stores. I’ll give myself a partial pass, since it seemed gauche to take one food retailer’s bag into another food retailer. Truth is, they don’t care - - no alarm goes off. Still, feeling guilt bumps, I bought two Trader Joe’s bags - - snappier design anyway.

At this rate I’m going to end up with two-dozen bags with six designs. I may give some to PJ. She can accessorize them with her outfits when she ventures out. Why do you think they call them bag ladies?

Besides owning a hybrid, I was hoping this bagging strategy would assuage the guilt bumps I get each weekend when I barbecue. The billowing smoke sets off the alarm at the local fire station.

Efforts such as mine often seem much ado about very little. If the president of the United States in his closing sayonara to the recent Japanese-hosted G-8 summit said, “Goodbye from the world’s biggest polluter,” how do I slow that environmental tsunami?

Makes me just burst with pride and want to hum the national anthem.

Red, White & Blueberry

2008-07-04T10:43:00.000-07:00

I love blueberries, so much that I frequently wear them, especially when I forget my splatter guard, aka apron. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: on cereal, ice cream, blueberry sauce on ice cream, mixed with cream, yogurt, blueberry pie, cobbler, tarts, cheesecake, and by the handful.

A few years ago Time magazine put out a spiel about the top ten foods that “pack a wallop”. Blueberries made the cut. Lab tests suggest that blueberries extend the lives of rats, though it’s beyond me why anyone would want to do that. The rats also showed balance, coordination, and memory improvement (like how to get in and out of your home’s walls). I could use improvement with all three of those skills.

Improved memory helps in lots of ways. Such as:
· Exams
· High school reunions
· Anniversaries and birthdays
· Finding your car in a parking lot
· When you forgot your grocery list
· Why you went into that room
· Finding your way back home

Blueberries also have, on a fresh weight basis, the highest antioxidant capacity of all the fresh fruits and vegetables tested to date.

One of my life’s philosophies is to celebrate and savor the small victories. If all you do is keep swinging for the bleachers, you will have mostly dour days. Scoring with a new recipe is a small victory. Scoring with a blueberry recipe makes my week.

I had been searching for a tart recipe that was simple and wasn’t overwhelmed by compote, glaze, or a vanilla cream filling. (Not that I dislike any of that.) Nothing on Food Network inspired me.

A few weeks ago a Los Angeles Times piece turned me on to a blog called Chocolate and Zucchini. The blogger is Clotilde Dusoulier. There’s link on the right of this page. I should hate her because she is much too bright and worldly at the sub-prime age of 28. She writes about all things food-related in all of Paris’ arrondissements. Her recent book is Clotilde’s Edible Adventures in Paris.

Her latest blog included this recipe. I’ve converted the grams to ounces for metric system-challenged folks like me.

Tarte aux Myrtilles

Pie Dough
6 ounces flour
3 ounces sugar
3 ounces butter
Dash of milk

Filling
10.6 ounces fresh blueberries
1 tablespoon crème fraiche
1 tablespoon sugar
1 egg

· Preheat oven to 400 degrees, grease a 9-inch tart pan or line it with parchment paper.
· In a food processor, mix the sugar and butter until fluffy. (Butter should be at room temperature.) Add in the flour until the dough forms coarse crumbs. Add a dash of milk, and mix again. Pour this mixture evenly into your tart pan, and press the dough down to pack it and cover the surface of the pan, forming a little rim all around. Put in the oven and bake for 20 minutes.
· Take the pie crust out and lower the temperature to 360. Pour in the blueberries, and return to the oven for 15 minutes.
· Beat together in a small bowl the crème fraiche, sugar and egg. Take the tart out of the oven, pour the mixture evenly over the blueberries and return to the oven for another 15 minutes. Turn off the oven and leave it in for a final 15 minutes.
· Let cool completely, and sprinkle with a tablespoon of sugar just before serving.

Notes:
· I increased the blueberry portion to one pound. I need all of the memory help I can get.
· If you have bonded with your oven, you know that temps can vary. I only cooked the crust initially for 15 minutes.
· I’m going to try this with raspberries.

French cooking can be complicated, but at times deliciously simple, like this tart.

This will be our 4th of July dessert, but with the addition of a single raspberry in the middle. Happy Independence Day.

More Stupid White Men

2008-06-26T20:56:00.000-07:00

I strive to stay on the sunny disposition side of my live-in ATM, just in case I ever need a hall pass. My pot roast recipe usually scores a weekend pass.

This past weekend I used one - - a pass, not the ATM.

I’ve done lots of stupid stuff in my life. I try to forget them. But that seems to be one vault in my memory bank that is fully functioning.

If mistakes humanize us then I have enough humanity to last two lifetimes.

I don’t purposely stammer something stupid in mixed company. I don’t consciously entrap my house to implode at inopportune times, just so I can prove I’m not related to Bob Vila, and am then forced to hire men with butt-cracks. I don’t purchase complicated self-assembly products made in China so I can create new words to add to my extensive profanity vocabulary.

When Forrest Gump plopped down $25,000 for a shrimp trawler, the seller looked at him and asked, “What are you, stupid or something?” To which Forrest replied, “Stupid is as stupid does.” Guilty as charged, robed one.

This past weekend I consciously, knowingly, with faculties in full force, added to my stupid list. I joined two buddies for a golf outing in Borrego Springs, California - - where, by mid-afternoons, the temperatures topped 120 degrees.

At my age this qualifies for the extreme sports competition.

When Michael Moore wrote his bestseller Stupid White Men, we three were not what he parodied, but the title stuck as much as our golf shirts.

My friends shall remain nameless, to protect their collusion, though not their innocence. Let’s refer to them as Dumb and Dumber.

The Dumber label belongs to the buddy who left work Friday evening and endured four hours of LA’s going-home, snail’s pace freeways, so he could get up at 6 AM to play golf in temps that reached 110 by 10 AM.

The humidity was so low the sweat evaporated by the time it broke through the skin pores. It was dryer than a Steven Wright comedy routine.

I seriously considered tossing clubs into the water holes, even after good shots, just so I could retrieve them. But I saved getting sloshed for the cocktail hour.

The wily coyotes lolled in their lairs while the desert bunnies bounded freely. The roadrunners walked everywhere, mocking the coyotes.

We drank a water bottle per hole, never once using the outdoor bathrooms (shrubs and trees).

As the guys’ weekend cook (the only reason I keep getting invited back), I didn’t bother igniting the stove. I sizzled the steaks on the patio pavement.

I would like to say that my reward for such bad judgment was a stellar golf score. I can’t. Some of my golf shots are listed in the “What the Hell was That?” golf shot Hall of Shame. You can add golf to my long list of engineering tasks I have never mastered, domestic or otherwise.

By the time we left, a cold snap was forecast for the next day - - 105 degrees - - which at least I scored less than.

I think I’ll pass on the next June pass, and make a pass at my ATM.

Gym-Ratting

2008-06-17T18:30:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure what defines a gym rat. I am not one but I know my way around them, gyms and rats. My rat education came from years of barn duty on that farm in Indiana.

Domestic Engineer Guys need to be taut and toned, never knowing the physical challenges in store in the storage room, yard, garage, bathrooms, kitchens, multi-tasking, marathon grocery-gathering, or the discerning eye of the breadwinner.

Secretly, I’m striving to jam long enough to join Smuckers’ Centurion Hall of Fame, and get my chrome-domed-mug on the Today Show.

When I pull into the LA Fitness, Anaheim Hills parking lot in my 1997 Saturn stud-mobile, my parking choices are between Mercedes, Lexus, BMWs, and SUVs on steroids. There is barely enough parking room for my compact. I always gingerly open my door to ease out, fearing I will set off an alarm or end up being sued for a door ding. When backing out, I’m in the middle of traffic before I can see both ways. With gas now approaching $5.00 I foresee seeing again in the parking lot, and further than one car in front of me on the streets and freeways.

My routine usually includes 40-45 minutes on a recumbent bike (more conducive to reading), 15 minutes of stretching, 15-30 minutes on the treadmill, and 10-15 minutes on upper-body weight machines. I burn 600 calories twice during the week, and 800-900 on grind-day, Saturday.

Speaking of Saturdays, the Saturday morning kick-boxing class is the club’s largest class. I have never counted more than one guy gyrating in it. Guys, be very afraid.

On weekends there are three stations on the long row of TV monitors. Even though the average member age is probably early-40s, the genius programmers at LA Fitness always have one of the channels tuned to the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. It’s a nice compliment to the infomercials.

One day I found myself on the treadmill between a middle-aged man and woman. Both were scanning the Wall Street Journal, while I was digesting a cookbook. My faith in stereotyping stratified some when I noted an easy-on-eyes, 40-something woman on a recumbent bike raptly reading a Glamour Magazine article entitled “What a Great Butt,” while the 30-something muscle-bound, testosterone-hoarding guy next to her not-so-discreetly checked hers out.

Sometimes I pass the time reading t-shirt graffiti. There is always at least one guy donning a taunting t-shirt, ballooned by bulges, no doubt compensating for bulge-brevity elsewhere. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say - - drug-inducements. Once a guy strutted around with a shirt spewing, “I am not scared. I am not afraid. I am tough. I am an animal. I will eat you if I have to.” Now there's a conversation starter. These guys usually arrive and depart in super-sized SUVs.

For the record, aging boomers should not be wearing spandex or leotards to the gym. I-Pod users should not sing. Guys should stick with their favorite sports team attire. Friends or acquaintances should not broadcast the days of their lives, their children, or their scumbag ex-husbands. And what’s with the women wearing makeup?

My favorite time at the gym is leaving. Meanwhile, I am slim and compact enough to avoid door dings and lawsuits.

Tools of the Trade

2008-06-04T09:30:00.000-07:00

Putting together a kitchen toolkit list is pretty easy, though not cheap. There are lots of lists in cookbooks, on food magazine websites, and, of course, on the Food Network. On cooking.com you will find a cook's equivalent to Craftsman Tools in a section entitled, "The Cook's Tool Shop." I get chills just thinking about it.

However, those lists leave out some essentials needed by a domestic engineer guy.

Broom and Dustpan - for the broken glass.
Paper Towels - for the spills.
Mop - for the really big spills.
Splatter Guard/Apron - unless you were never planning to wear that shirt again.
Burn Salve and Bandaids - for burns, scalds, and knife wounds.
Spot Remover - for the times you forgot to don the splatter guard.
Blow Torch - if your bride is particularly fond of that gridiron look on her beef, chicken, and fish.
Goggles - for chopping onions. Guys don't cry...in the kitchen.
Duct Tape - you will find some use for it.
Fire Extinguisher - burning down your house is not on the domestic engineer course list.
Homeowner's Insurance - does your policy cover grease fires?
Boat Motor - a really powerful mixer.
Cleaver - for the times you don't have the patience to finesse the separation of the chicken legs. Also used for cutting cheddar.
Hatchet - for cutting Gouda.
Chainsaw - for cutting Parmigiano-Reggiano.
Tool Belt - not just any tool belt but a double-sided one - one side for kitchen tools, and the other side for household emergency repairs.

You will also need a head cover. You're a cook, not a chef - so chuck the chef's hat. I recommend a bandanna. Kitchens get hot. Sweat is salty, but not an ingredient. If that pirate looks excites your bride, you might keep an eye patch handy.

"You Don't Know What You've Got 'Til It's Gone"

2008-05-30T07:35:00.000-07:00

Carole King's refrain bubbled up the other day while I was sniffing and fondling vegetables at my local farmer's market. I am a passionate consumer of fruits and vegetables, though the USDA's food pyramid's guidelines of at least five servings per day, weighs me down. Adherence to the food pyramid would easily layer on another ten pounds per year.

The City of Orange, California recently sanctioned a Thursday farmer's market in a mall's parking lot. Previously the closest sizeable market was 20 miles away. With gas in Southern California now at $4.20 per gallon and climbing, miles matter more.

The refrain recall connected me back to that small farm of my youth outside of Logansport, Indiana. Those were far from halcyon days, but they are remembered now more wistfully than not. Growing up, the naturalness of the four seasons and the annual evolution of plant life seemed integrated into who we were. We were our own farmer's market. Sitting down to eat what we harvested that day connected us to each other and to our environment.

We rarely think about that life until it is gone. This relationship with our nourishing land (assuming we are proper stewards of it) is an art now lost in most of the country, though there is a minor movement back. Barbara Kingsolver's (one of my favorite authors) latest book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle speaks to this.

My vegetable standards have risen in recent years, buying more organic items, and pondering the carbon footprints of supermarket servings. Most supermarkets import fresh or somewhat fresh foodstuffs from all over the world, year around. But if you're even remotely paying attention to that non-controversial global warming "controversy", you don't want to see a carbon-mapping of that food distribution system. You will have oil all over your hands.

My food and beverage shopping stops now total seven outlets, though 50% comes from one supermarket, which is also the closest of the seven.

It is tempting to turn our small backyard into a vegetable garden, building upon my herb patch, and lime and lemon trees. But I suspect my neighborhood association vigilante committee would turn me in for not seeking landscaping approval. Besides, our dog wouldn't have a place to dig.

This past Thursday at the mall market, I bought asparagus, arugula, heirloom baby tomatoes, broccoli, baby carrots, and strawberries, all organically-grown. Some vendors had traveled from as far as Fresno, four hours north. I have no idea how these vendors are selected or self-selected, but four hours seems far, and gas-guzzling.

If you are metropolis or suburb-opolis based like me, do some research and find the nearest and best farmer's market. Support your local, or somewhat local, farmers. They learned more in cow college than just coddling cows.