Friday, April 25, 2008

Hello Kitty in My Life

Photo Flickr - devlyn

Sung to the tune of "Let it Be" by the Beatles

When I find myself in times of trouble
Hello Kitty comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
"Be like me"

And in the hour of darkness
There is still a light that shines on me
There will be an answer
Hello Kittyyyyyyyyy

Hello Kitty Hello Kitty
I'm glad you talk to me
Bringing words of wisdom
"Be like me"

Saturday, April 19, 2008

You Can, Go Home Again

Photo Flickr-law_keven

If you want to go home again, it's best to start out on a sunny afternoon on a late Spring day. You'll need a starting point of course, and the best starting point is always the Champs-Elysees.

To get to the Champs-Elysees, go over the ten foot long bridge spanning the trickle of stream that separates Virginia and West Virginia on the long winding road dotted with hayfields, truck repair shops, and small houses, then turn right almost immediately into the new shiny Shell gas station with the Subway sandwich shop and convenience store all enclosed so nicely within it.

Here the journey begins.
It's best to be dressed right for this occasion of home-coming. Men: bandanas and motorcyle jackets with black sunglasses will do, or alternately overalls with a white T-shirt and workboots. Slouchy-jawed and unshaven is best. If you can't manage this then at least wear a feedcap that has seen better days. Women: jeans and any old top are fine. Makeup and hair are the important parts here. Hair should be long and frizzley with bangs pointing upwards in seeming delight, or short scarily spiked out. No makeup but for dark black all around your eyes with a liquid eyeliner, providing a clear unsmudged intense accent.

Drive north and turn onto Bozoo Road. Head up the road past the black cows that always seem to dance to the music on the car radio. Sometimes they ambulate to the beat, other times they wiggle their heads sideways and toss their tails. When the day is a bit chilly the younger ones might prance and butt heads, playing at a big fight. As boys sometimes look like puppies when they tussle and play, these young steer look like boys somehow, boys just stuck in the big leathery hides just pretending to be cows.

Go past the sparkling pond that fills an acre and a half in the front yard where the bass and bluegills are always ready to bite. Drive straight out to the little brick church that sits on the top of the hill on the edge of nowhere, where the hills and green and sky just lay beyond till they reach the river and the old ferry some miles past, which is there but which seems like the end of the known universe, looking past the tiny deserted church with its dirt parking lot edged with its broken-down wooden swingset and kiddie slide.

Stinking Lick Road is there on the left, the tiny dirt road heading straight back into the edge of the barren-looking woods. Someday someone might actually drive up that road and see what's there. Why would a place be called "Stinking Lick"?

The place to go to is the Dairy Bar, and the Ballard Food Store too. Here, the burgers taste like burgers did in 1965, at any Dairy Bar anywhere. They taste like home, like summer, like simplicity and innocence. The french fries are crinkle-cut, the ketchup cheap and vinegary. Let's be clear about this. This is a world away from "gourmet". This is a world away from any sort of pretension, here at the Dairy Bar. "Ice Milk Available" says the old hand-lettered sign on bent posterboard stuck to the wall with yellowing cellophane rectangles of tape. The small square workspace is where all the food is made by the lady that owns the place with an always-present teenage girl assisting, learning to fry oysters, grill burgers, make a perfect swirl of soft-serve.

When the order's ready it's squeezed out with a welcoming extended hand through the tiny glass window in small white sacks, while they call out names. And they do know your name. Be sure to keep your ear in good tune though, waiting to be called, for each syllable of your name will stretched into three, lilted into a song with high and low notes sounding through the air.

Across the street at the tiny food store, the dark interior is belied by bright toppled boxes of produce and seeds and plants out front. Things look like they have been saved for survival purposes from some past wartime inside the store. The chicken feed is more prominently displayed than almost anything else except for country ham in a large cluttered plastic-wrapped assortment of cuts, and there's the round of hoop cheese around the corner next to the six fifty-gallon plastic garbage containers filled with different kinds of dried beans. They're labelled "new crop" when they are, of course. Pintos rule, and new crop ain't old crop by any stretch of a cook's imagination.

Crossing the street, there's always the pickup truck driving by with too many people stuck together in the cab, lurching sideways with hay bales in the truckbed, sometimes followed by a battered horse trailer. They smile and wave through the open windows as they drive past. No, you don't really know them, they don't really know you, but you are here and they are here and that warrants a smile and a wave. You nod and smile and wave back and remember all this, this way of being.

There's always the guy that walks out of the store past you as you walk in. He might be tall and lanky, or short and skinny. He's never fat, for he works with his hands on a farm. He bales hay, fixes the vehicles that always break, handles the cattle and the crops and somehow he just never gets fat or pudgy or overfed. He's always there though he may not always be the exact same guy, but he looks right into your eyes, I mean right into your eyes, unashamedly, without hesitation or covertness of any sort whatsoever and he smiles the sweetest damn smile right into you. In that moment an internal breath is taken away along with a sweeping off of your feet even though you know that if you opened your mouth to talk you'd scare the guy half to death being, as you are, an "outsider". But that smile held the beauty of a simplicity that's rarely if ever seen outside these parts, outside places "like this", like the place you've come home to. No measurement, no conniving, no wondering, in that smile.

In that smile, you're the girl that sits on the haystack laughing, as the colt skitters sideways at the cat that jumps from the grass to surprise it. In that smile, his eyes say in a straightforward manner, without any twisting torturously around as if under a sharp pin: I'm a good man. His eyes say this without question for he knows he is, without question. The sun rises, the sun sets. The world is as it has been for some long time here and it won't change too quick, no needs to worry about this that the other thing and more. Hay grows and is cut, over and over. Calving season comes regular with reminders of life and death as some calves live and some die, some rise and grow, some falter, and each one is a small perfect thing of beauty. That smile says he's a man who likes you as a woman, without question. It says, "I'll cherish you." And you know he would, for it shows in that smile, without question. He'd cherish you, and how often does that happen.

Inside the dusky store a piece of hoop cheese is cut with the heavy battered knife from the huge black wax-edged round set out on the wooden table waiting to be cut by different hands, to be taken home to different homes, to be nibbled on by a hundred different people, each one devouring it crumble by slightly oily torn-off crumble. The plastic wrap is set right there next to it to wrap it.

Time to go now. Time to drive back up the other road past the battered sign for the Cashmere Coon Hunt Club, where the guys meet on Friday nights to drink beer and plan that someday soon they'll head out to the woods with their favorite huntin' dogs to hunt raccoons . . . someday soon . . . then past more hills, more green, more cows, more ponds. Time to drive back to where you live which is not here. Time to go back to where you belong a mite more closely than you belong here.

You can go home again, even if you don't really belong there, as each tangy crumble of warm orange hoop cheese will remind you. You can go home with the taste of each bite taken into your hungry mouth, touching your tongue as you nibble with little bites till bit by bit the hypnotic, acidic, dense buttery haunting taste is done with. Home is where the heart is, and sometimes you can even taste it. No matter how you're dressed.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Dining Upon the Celebrity Chef

Photo Flickr - David Wulff

Today our guest blogger Moira Tuscanaro offers astrological advice on how to choose the chef just right for you.

Hello dolls it’s Moira! With Mars in a tailspin it is vitally important for us to focus on what is truly necessary to inform and improve our lives. We must focus on that which will move us to a higher plane of existence.

I speak now of Celebrity Chefs, of course. How indeed, could it be otherwise?! Purrrrrrr.

Who among us has not wanted to devour one of these tasty morsels?! Who has not spent hours driven nearly mad with a constantly-simmering sense of urgent desire driving one’s thoughts, endlessly thinking of every move they make, wanting so very badly to have been there, to have been by their haute and hunky sides as they smacked that head of garlic or slapped that ever-so-rude runner’s hand?! It is touching to see, this mad passion. And we should indulge it, and indulge it well. Who knows where this passion might carry us? Gazing at the stars is merely the start of the path. Perhaps a side-trip into the kitchen will follow. Meow.

Let us speak more of the Celebrity Chef. The food they create is just the tip of the iceberg. It merely serves to pique our interest in them personally. Who they are, what they do, their adventures in and out of money-making deals, whether they fulfilled the request for an order of foie gras in sheep’s milk and whether or not their hair was clean today! This knowledge is vital.

Astrology leads us to the higher planes of thought, where can then decide: Are they perfect enough for us? Have they done all things in the right fashion that we need them to? And their testicles – have they both descended? We are so darn pleased and quite excited in an odd sort of way to be recently edified (by a renowned expert in the restaurant consulting field in a story on a certain foodie website) that this knowledge *is* required in this decision-making process! Yes indeedy! We now understand that we must only deal with those chefs with both, descendant.

We will not speak of any women chefs here, for they are a breed apart. And besides, nobody ever mentions them anyway. Could this be due to the reason everyone knows deep within their true hearts? That the kitchen, indeed, is where women *really* belong? Mew.

Here, then, are your advisements. Enjoy, enjoy! There is nothing more emotionally delicious and truly exciting to the egotistical taste buds than feeling the savory hot juices of a celebrity chef dripping down a happily quivering double chin, particularly if he is live and on the hoof!


Aries: Your chef will have a ferocious temper. His enunciations will be fiery and his food will evoke thoughts of Amazonian adventures. His method of recipe development will be to arbitrarily toss bunches of pureed habanero peppers into every pan, after they were hand-chewed to a fine pulp by the easiest-going dishwasher on the staff. His hair will be messy, his chef’s coat bold with brightly embroidered titles. Many sparkling sauces will embolden your chef’s food, sauces made by reductions of as many pounds of wild game he can hunt each night from any slow-moving wait staff. Sharpen your teeth, Aries, and join him!

Taurus: Pork roast. Pork roast. Pork roast. Passionate pork roast. Pork roast with herbs. Pork roast stuffed with exotic fruits and braised in a fine red wine. Pork roast coated with fennel seed and garlic, wrapped in caul fat, slowly browned then cooked in milk. Your Taurean chef is there to sate you. Meat. Pork roast. Perhaps an artichoke to start, but a small one, enlivened with poached beef marrow and shaved Parmesan to kill off any vegetable flavor. Your earthy Taurean chef will make you so happy that you will be unable to stand up from the table after dinner. Fat, sublime, loving satisfaction will be yours. Take a bite.

Gemini: Look deeply into your Gemini celebrity chef’s eyes. You may notice their innocent, pure gaze. Don’t be surprised when important utterances he allows to fall from his heart-shaped lips are as confusing as dancing on a floor where a pound of butter landed. Pretty, pretty food, though. Food that is easy, light, whimsical, and sometimes threateningly towering. Do not forget to place your napkin on your lap while dining upon the Gemini chef. He is can shatter quickly into a joyous mess of delicious flaky crumbs.

Cancer: Cancer, your star-studded chef attends to the detailed requirements of status with the tenacity of a crab. Hints of his high quality will start outside the door to the restaurant, quiet yet audaciously tenacious reminders. Mind your manners with this chef! His food will not be as controversial as some you might find with the other astrological signs, but you will surely be eating a man who Knows Who He Is. Expect him to taste of the finest old Larousse or an equivalent modern text.

Leo: The Leo celebrity chef will announce himself with a toss of his glorious mane soon after you enter his restaurant! Watch his progress as he magnificently swooshes through the dining room, bowing and graciously kissing each lady’s hand! His food will be flamboyant. Foams that hit your chin as the dish is placed before you and truffles en masse, carved into tiny swans strewn over the baby piranha eggs draped over a flittery filo butterfly will merely whet your appetite for more, more, MORE of him! He will be ever so happy to oblige.

Virgo: Be quiet and be serious. Please wear your best clothes, dear Virgo, as you approach your chef. He is surprisingly skittish though touchingly formal. He will expect perfection from you as you dine every bit as much as he does from himself. Exude a sense of calm reflection as you eat your single perfectly poached mouthful of quail egg on the eighteen inch plate that the staff of three carry with completely straight faces to set before you. Take gentle small nibbles of him before chowing down for highest essence of flavor.

Libra: The Libran celebrity chef is usually so full of charm (when you can catch him awake and not napping under the pastry table) that you might have an intense urge to lick him all over endlessly before diving in. From his kitchen he will seduce you with creations made for the tiny bite. Some of them will look quite silly. Nevertheless, as you laugh, your hunger to really bite him and to really bite him hard, will increase. Indulge yourself. He won’t mind. He will consider it a chance to take a break.

Scorpio: Humble yourself before the Scorpio star chef’s menu creations. There is serious artistic merit invoked in each plate. If you act appropriately, there may be a seven-course meal provided, all for your appreciation. Make lots of happy noises while eating or he may hit you with his sharp tail or tongue.

Sagittarius: The gregarious Sagittarian chef is ready to entertain you by whatever means possible! Catch that still-flapping live fish as he throws it into the air towards you to prove its freshness! Tread upon the fresh herbs strewn along the floor towards the kitchen while deeply inhaling the aroma! Join the ranks of laughing wait staff at the bar for a drink or two while you endlessly wait for your table. It is all so much fun to have this happy raconteur of a star-studded chef in mind for a tasty meal. Don’t mind the mess, just enjoy the fun!

Capricorn: Bring a book. Bring maybe two books. This could take a while. If you have enough patience to wait for your Capricorn celebrity chef to finally deliver your whole grain ethically grown biologically unaltered specimen of DNA-checked intelligent tiny portion of poached fish with Arctic sea nettles, it will be worth it. Please keep quiet about the whole thing, and eat him with a sense of duty and an air exuded of undertaking a higher calling. He will appreciate it deeply and in a heartfelt way.

Aquarius: Get ready for glamour with this zodiac sign celebrity chef! Sighing with intense pleasure, he will be ready to strip off his Armani suit just for you to chow down upon him and all the creations on his luxurious menu. Most of them are only there for show, anyway, just to whet your taste. They really were never made by anyone in that kitchen at all. But so what! It is all in fun! Don’t forget to take off his Rolex before you start to nibble. It might give you an unpleasant shock.

Pisces: The mystery that your chef exudes is only matched by the tasty lightness of his food. Often he can forget to make any food whatsoever, being swathed in a lovely daydream of what it is he will put on his menu tomorrow. Nevertheless, this chef has a happy sweetness of taste that all the chefs from any other astrological sign lack, and the kitchen staff always remembers to keep cooking, so who cares?!

The stars have offered their advice to you, dear hungry ones.
Who exactly are these chefs in person? That is something the stars can not tell you. Only you will know that. Aside from the fact that these chefs are all men. Remember that these astrologic advisements do not apply to women chefs. They are a breed of their own and can not be defined within the parameters of what is flying around in the sky.

Only you have the understanding of your own hungers, particularly those that strike when the Moon is full and bright, as it lies omniscient and heavy in the sky as if straining its ears to hear the distant baying of howling hounds. Meow. Prrrrrrr.