Three Links

Happy VD everyone! I hope you all are having a good VD experience (the antibiotics make me giddy and lightheaded). Yes, I made that joke last year, and I'll continue to make it every year. It's just one of those things about me that you're going to have to live with. Like when I meet someone with a PhD and ask "Hey Doc, can you take you take a look at this rash?" It doesn't get old.

These are interesting bits, in no particular order, and Jesus loves them equally:

These are the ways you can love yourself...

(title unknown)

Her Eyes

It's been so long since I wrote one of these link posts. How do they usually end?
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Car Chase

Car chase.
Car chase!
Car chase!!
(tiresqueal)
Car chase!!!
Car chas!!!!
Car cha!!!!!
(sideswipe danglemirror)
Car ch!!!!!!
Car c!!!!!!!
Car!!!!!!!!
(mustacheman cherryflash blueberryflash)
Ca!!!!!!!!!
C!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!
(crash steamcloud foreheadhorn exhale)

Sprout's Sexual Cafe: Braised Lamb Shoulder

Welcome to another installment of Sprout's Sexual Cafe, the cafe where we sexualize food, which may or may not be better than gastronomizing sex. I'm your host, Sprout, but most adults call me Jon unless they have a sentimental attachment to the previous moniker, which is fine. My staff and I are all about attachments here, but unless invited to stay, you will be expected to leave after dinner, maybe wearing one of my shirts. If it's the nice one I want it back. But oh what a dinner we have for you.

Ingredients

2 pounds lamb shoulder, cut into your best imitation of 1 inch cubes, seasoned with sea salt and pepper
4 small yellow onions, quartered
6 cloves garlic, sliced (No one stinks of garlic if everyone stinks of garlic.)
4 stalks celery, 1 inch pieces (I know, everyone wants at least eight-inch pieces, but seriously, that shit gets limp in hot liquid.)
1 pound carrot nubs (Carrot nubs? Well, in this instance you can't call them baby carrots. And who knows, someone may have an finger amputee fetish.)
1 cup red wine (That leaves plenty for transforming personality defects into adorable quirks.)
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled, 1 inch dice (We'll find out if my potato is as sweet as your potato.)
zest and juice of 1 lemon (Fuck the juice, keep the zest.)
vegetable oil (no original joke available)
Sea salt, thyme (use twice as much if it's sexythyme), and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Good. Now it's business-time. Cube the lamb shoulder. I know, it can be frustrating at first. There are bones where you don't want bones, and instead of giving a sweet massage, your knife is constantly probing and poking. What is connective tissue and what is bone? Just keep in mind that the connective tissue, cooked low and slow, is going to give your dinner experience the tenderness and richness that you deserve, that you've always pined for.

Put some oil in a stockpot on medium high, let it get good and so hot, and sear that meat (this will all be flavor later) for about four minutes a side (totaling 8, despite the fact that a cube has six sides). Set the meat aside. You'll want to admire it, but don't touch it yet. It's not cooked through. Haven't you ever read (or been taught in high school) the meat-handling instructions?

Toss the carrots, celery, onions, and garlic in the remaining oil and lamb fat. Season and caramelize a touch, but don't go overboard. We're building anticipation here. When you can smell the garlic sweet with your nose in the lovepot, add the wine. Reduce by three-quarters or until you can no longer smell booze. I know. I get impatient too.

Add the lamb back to the pot, add water to almost cover, taste the broth for seasoning, and put a lid on it. Sorry, I mean talk with your eyes, talk with your body. Cook it on low for two hours. What you do for those two hours is up to you, but if were up to me...I'd stir it occasionally. And always taste.

After the two hours are up, add the sweet potatoes. A half-hour later, I would put that shit in bowls, maybe garnish with a crusty bread, and eat. Of course, if you're up to something more fun, let it burn. Let's burn this whole town down.

We didn't even use the lemon. Well, it's not like this is a lemon party.
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On Mimicry

If I listen and remember and feel, everything else will follow. People seek fun. Women surprise and delight me. Quietness in the mind and quickness in the heart serve me well. My eyes are beautiful.

Listen. First I receive, then I give. First I absorb, then I reflect. Maybe I have it backwards. Maybe the order doesn't matter as long as there's exchange. Each exchange starts anew.

Others play music on my emotions. I repeat their music in a different key at a different volume to a different person. Sometimes I warble. Sometimes I wah-wah.

Most people would rather listen to their own music.

A Morning in Kindergarden

There are deep dark circles under my eyes. My hair is clean but uncombed. My voice reverberates around my hollow insides.

It's Bunny Day. The children hop around the room. They can wiggle their noses, but are not allowed to speak.

The notion of jumping or hopping is intolerable. So is the fluorescent light. So is everything but the children and the teacher. She is innocent like them. The snack is baby carrots.

The teacher offers me a paper cup of apple juice. I take it and wait. I don't know why I'm here. I might as well learn something.

It's an almost poem

With breath control there is no idea, emotion, or object you cannot dissolve into the rest. It brings the white blankness where there is peace.

A bush sprouts tiny overnight. Soon comes its prime, its beautiful days -- days, days, days fragrant with musk. The worms have done their job.

A man walks his smiling, sharp-toothed dog, excitement on a leash, excrement on a leash, the cause and effect of sniffing.

One with nature, the homeless still aren't heard.

Why I write and why I need you

It's your interest in my writing and your belief in my ability that keeps the inadequacies from swarming, those angry bees whose sting leads to sudden anger. I'm needy sometimes. I can admit that. But I can also pounce upon and devour small prey. I'm a cat. Give me a can of tuna or I will annoy you. I will trip you.

I draw from a reservoir of warm feeling. I fill myself with it. I bathe myself with my tongue, tongue meaning language (if only it didn't, if only through yoga). This enables me to balance base honesty (killing a rat) with a pleasant full life (playing with the rat carcass). It's love. I purr.

I've planted by hand a crop of ideas. They're my nip. I water them every morning because they are thirsty. We will see what flowers bloom and if they smell nice, and if they have psychoactive properties, and if I end up on the floor, hands in the air, giggling. That's what I write for.

Post Revisited (11/09) - On buying drywall screws

The hardware store has a distinct lovely smell. Each aisle contains the potential of labor, the potential accomplishment of building or repairing, of cleaning or lighting or moving electricity from one place to another, hopefully avoiding the body as conductor or conduit and the taste of pennies. There is metal and wood and rubber and plastic. There is paint and paint thinner and solvents and solutions to any problem with a practical solution.

I wander, not knowing anything, imagining chain jewelry and chain weapons measured from spools, hats made of orange funnels, music in a drill bit, laughter from a ball cock. With knowledge and the right tools, any wish can be granted. In a hardware store, a man becomes a child, and a child with the right knowledge becomes a man, small but vast, knowing the absurd humor of any man who describes with his hands that he wants a pipe cut "this long."

Problem/Solution/Com- plication

Problem: I can't articulate what love is.

Solution: It's like a flower.

Complication: Ugh, lame.

Solution: It's like a flower within a flower.

Complication: Well, for lesbians maybe.

Solution: It's like shower mold.

Complication: No, it's not like shower mold.

Solution: Are you sure? Think about it. They both sometimes spontaneously appear after warm moist activities. They can both be killed with bleach too.

Complication: Too much scrubbing.

Solution: It's like the swelling of a popular movement to overthrow a dictator.

Complication: Did you see the pictures of Gaddafi?

Solution: It's like Summer daybreak over the heart: a bare rose-tinged glow nurtured into bliss and wonder, growing hotter, searing, cloying, exhausting, consuming everything with its midafternoon heat, and then it slows, grows softer, pink and purple and orange, excruciating in its beauty, its inevitable exit intolerable, and then the last light and then nothing...

Complication: Hmmm.

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Sunday (anticipated)

I stand in the middle of the living room. The sun makes rectangles on the carpet, warm like a warm dog. This is the purity of the present.

I dream. I feel my stomach plunge, recognize my faults and my kindness. I cherish the confusion, the mystery of why I am. But I am hungry.

I grill sausages.

A Nicer Way of Saying

The puzzle for today is...

__________ is a nicer way of saying __________.

Of course, this is the only puzzle game I run, and it's somewhat like those crosswords without numbers, only much easier and less pointless.

My solution today is "Would you like some cheese grits?" is a nicer way of saying "We don't serve bagels, and I hate you, Yankee."

The funny part is that I actually wanted cheese grits all along.
I just didn't know it at the time.

Now your turn.

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Sprout's Sexual Cafe: Steaks and Potatoes and Corn

A lot of bloggers like to write about what they cook. I do too. I'm like them. I conform. No reason to look twice at me. I'm not doing anything illegal or immoral or some other i-word. Interesting, maybe.

The reason for the title is one day I was olive oiling up some chicken breasts to be cooked, and I like to get into that shit, and to my friends something about oil and breasts evoked sex. Who knew? So they made a joke about how there should be this restaurant called Sprout's Sexual Cafe. So, in turn, this will be a new feature where I share my recipes and techniques to bring gastronomic delight and maybe other sorts of delights. Enjoy. Or don't.

Steaks:

1) Buy the steaks, grass-fed, for that is the right thing to do. Cows do not naturally eat corn.

2) Pick three spices at random, use only slightly compared to your use of salt and pepper. This will give you the illusion of being a gourmet. Massage the spices into the steaks as you would your lover's foot, if you were weird enough to use the word "lover" and/or eat a human foot.

3) Delegate the responsibility for grilling the steaks to the man with the most facial hair in the room. He will do a good job. If he does not, forcibly shave him. On the face, you pervert.

Potatoes:

1) Fetch the red potatoes from whatever obscure cabinet I've hid them in. Peel them, because they've no doubt grown buds from their eyes through my neglect. Quarter them, olive oil them, and place on parchment paper on a cookie sheet or rimmed baking pan. Salt and pepper and rosemary liberally.

2) Set the oven to 450. It seems hot, I know, and that's because it is hot. It's so hot I almost can't stand it.

3) Cook for 40 minutes or so, turning once or twice or thrice, depending on how compulsive you are. If you are very compulsive, seek therapy. After done, tent with aluminum foil to keep them warm. Save the aluminum foil to use as a hat.

4) The potatoes should be a little bit blistered. Blisters are delicious, but not so delicious that you should omit using an oven glove to remove those potatoes. Place them in a serving bowl and butter them until glistening.

Corn:

1) Open a can of corn, drain, and put it in the microwave. Set the timer for two minutes. Allow your fingers to trace edges of the start button. Smile. Take the can of corn out of the microwave and empty it into a microwaveable dish. Warm that up. By that time your bearded friend should be serving the steaks. Ha! You've collaborated on a wonderful meal.

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Toast

This toaster makes the anticipation almost terrifying. My eyes wide, my pants tight, I tense. I shiver, I quiver, I revel.

POP!

I cry tears of laughter -- the ecstatic moment. So warm, so golden brown, so ready for butter.

I like bread.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning is best near a sunny south-facing window. The drink, something cheery with a cherry, olive, or twist, cools the throat as the sun warms the eyelids. The room is white even with eyes closed. The day is full of promise and there's no fear at all.

If you think you look ugly in the direct sunlight, I've seen you there and you're beautiful. It brings out your flaws, your innocence, and I melt. In that light to touch you seems a sin.

(I'll remember you said that when I need to be happy.)

Problem Solution Com-plication

Problem: The Sun is disappearing again.

Solution: Consult the Farmer's Almanac.

Complication: Monsanto and Cargill have burned all of them.

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Selections from the Box

I keep a big black plastic container next to my computer. It houses the contents of an old Marshall Fields box into which I tossed pages and pages of printouts that I don't want to throw away, but for which I don't have any immediate use. From time to time, I like to share excerpts with you all. This is one of those times.

This is the highlight from a love letter to Emma (I don't remember writing a love letter -- obviously it didn't work), probably circa Summer 1998:

"...joy and despair coupled are infinitely more preferable than existing in a prolonged desensitized state. However, I do not wish to employ you as my therapist, so I'll get to my point. In the coldest periods of the past year, every once in a while your presence could make me feel the pure happiness that I used to be able to feel. However incidental this phenomenon might have been, the fact remains that I am indebted to you for being the only one with that ability. So thanks."

Wow, dude, that's really good -- fantastic effort young Jon. It's a touch clinical, or maybe I mean academic, or maybe I mean reserved, but I don't know if I could do it much better.

Well...

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Three Links

Wow, I haven't done one of these in awhile. It's Summer's fault -- the season, not the Sanders woman. The weather's been pretty much gorgeous here, the food's been great, and the company varied and intriguing. But, geez, I'm so sick of that. Let's get to the season of dying already. Right?

These are interesting bits, in no particular order, although there is no true random:

Once they get a taste of blood, you have to put them down.

On The Road, Nov. 19, 2010

happy new (fiscal) year!!

Okay, it's your turn.

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At the pool

On these hot summer days she splashes in the shallow end. Warm sprinkles leap and dance, but no one else gets wet. Her feet remain on the bottom. When it gets too hot she reclines against the wall, feeling the concrete rough against her legs, and lets the water lap over her.

The deep end is filled with large shapes hungry for baby-tender meat. She won't turn her back on it. She knows that one day she will have to go out there.

On the pool deck she wraps her wrap and puts on her big sunglasses, fashion being the meringue of personality, a way to explore the self without abject terror, revealing only what she wants to be seen.

In the Far Reaches

In the far reaches of her mind, down beyond the twisting divide, a silken box bakes in haze. It holds her desire. It quivers, puddles, and bubbles at the top. It could burst, throwing hope limitless into the future.

He cannot quench her desire without giving himself to her, something he will not do. He does not trust what's inside of himself, an angry little boy.

How he fears that she gives herself to other men, ravishing them with her tongue, stroking with slender hands, her mouth on other hair, other flavors. How he hates.

He buys her desperate gifts. They, like their plastic wrapping, are destined to turn slow circles in the doldrums of the ocean.

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On Schizophrenia

My mommies, angels, cats, live all over the world. They get their heart-shaped chains from the Statue of Liberty. They make it so there's no black snowmen. Pepper is the opposite of salt.

If I'm not mistaken, if it's not dangerous and irresponsible speculation, there's nothing wrong with having a tree as a friend. Branches are like coral and porcupines. This is so.

On a conversation overheard in line at Trader Joe's

I never thought I'd want to hear about a romance between a corporate lawyer and an investment banker that doesn't end in a murder/suicide pact. Well, that's still the case.