Once again I find myself doing my part to keep Yuengling in business, dumping gallons of their fine beer product down my throat. Tonight we're listening to Stevie Wonder who is on my mind because I saw his happy face in attendance at the sparring match between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. Of all the big name folks the camera caught, he was the one I cared to see.
I had a nice grocery store incident today. I got home in time to smoke a cigarette with Momma before she took off for work only to realize I'd left a bag behind. It was an important bag as it contained my onion, red pepper and garlic, all of which were essential to my cooking supper, arroz con pollo, mostly from the Joy of Cooking.
She called in late as I sped back down the road to fetch my goods. It wasn't until the meal was ready for the cup of frozen green peas that I realized that they had also been in that bag. And here I was at home with no working car in which to return yet again to the store. DAMN and damn again!
Other than the missing peas and having allowed the rice to overcook as I wrestled the chicken off the bones, the dish was as delightful as ever. As is my want I don't exactly follow Ms. Joy's instructions. I like to add a can of diced tomatoes, and the red pepper was substituted for green because every single one of the green peppers available to me was absolute shit. I can't imagine paying money for the nasty things they had out in the produce section today, and I much prefer the good taste of a red pepper to that green-ness inherent in a green pepper, so it wasn't a total loss.
It's not that I don't like green peppers, though I don't, because I realize that, as an ingredient, they do add a little something in the proper proportion. And sometimes the green is what is called for. A good spaghetti sauce is no less good subbing a red pepper for a green, but it changes the whole dynamic. If that's what you want then fine. I was thinking the green and . . . seriously, blah-blah-blah, but that's as good a story as I have tonight.
Either way, the rice is still overcooked, and no amount of rooster sauce can fix mushy rice. The flavor is fine, and the dish is all sorts of tasty. But I still want to have to chew my rice. It's a perfect texture for a senior citizen, and thanks to Doc's comment in my most recent and especially queer ass post, I no longer feel quite as long in the tooth as I could. But the rice . . . again, blah-blah-blah.
And that's where I find myself. I've run out of things to say in this particular post. I'm still debating whether to make a post out of the new site I joined where ninety five percent of the members are willing to identify themselves with pictures of their wieners. There's a good post in there I'm quite sure, but a two weeks in, I'm almost certain it isn't where I find myself heading, and besides, it's a whole other post if it's a post at all. And if that description doesn't tip you off to the kind of thing I'm talking about then you're likely better off not knowing, which isn't to say I won't share sometime soon.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Friday, February 01, 2008
speak for yourself, mary
I've noticed something about myself lately, and I'm not claiming that it's either good or bad. It just is. Though if it's about me you can bet your sweet ass it's more good than not. It's at least better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
Before we really get into the story I should point out that I've never been the butchest bitch on the block. Again, it's neither good nor bad, just is, but it's somehow appropriate to the situation to have this information as we proceed.
Also, I've never pretended that I'm not a bit of a lush. I like my beer, and maybe on occasion a Sunday afternoon just deserves a bloody Mary while the sun is still riding high in the sky; lord knows I deserve it a bit more often than I get it, and a shot of tequila wouldn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure we're fresh out of that.
And none of that's really the point. We're here to discuss something else, and that something else is that it seems that I somehow grow a little gayer as the drinks pile up in my system.
It's nothing major, no flames licking the ceiling, not quite Japanese girl hiding her giggles behind her hand. But I hold my cigarette a little more just so. The "oh my goooood" grows a tiny bit more shrill. The eyes roll slightly more sarcastically in that certain way.
The south in me probably comes out a bit more at those times too, and what could be better than a southern queen approaching middle age?
Again, I'll point out that this is neither good nor bad, but I'd lean toward more good than not if pressed. It certainly beats the sullen prick I used to find more likely just a few short months ago.
I pointed this out to Momma last night, and she was kind enough to have noticed as well. I'm not sure kind enough is really where we're going here, but it helps that I'm not deluding myself.
What to do with this? Not a fucking thing as far as I can tell. I'm sure it's a case of just is, as I pointed out earlier. It doesn't bother me in the least, and if it bothers you then be glad you only have to deal with my drunk ass through the tubes that are the internets. And girl just be yourself.
And speak for yourself, Mary!
Before we really get into the story I should point out that I've never been the butchest bitch on the block. Again, it's neither good nor bad, just is, but it's somehow appropriate to the situation to have this information as we proceed.
Also, I've never pretended that I'm not a bit of a lush. I like my beer, and maybe on occasion a Sunday afternoon just deserves a bloody Mary while the sun is still riding high in the sky; lord knows I deserve it a bit more often than I get it, and a shot of tequila wouldn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure we're fresh out of that.
And none of that's really the point. We're here to discuss something else, and that something else is that it seems that I somehow grow a little gayer as the drinks pile up in my system.
It's nothing major, no flames licking the ceiling, not quite Japanese girl hiding her giggles behind her hand. But I hold my cigarette a little more just so. The "oh my goooood" grows a tiny bit more shrill. The eyes roll slightly more sarcastically in that certain way.
The south in me probably comes out a bit more at those times too, and what could be better than a southern queen approaching middle age?
Again, I'll point out that this is neither good nor bad, but I'd lean toward more good than not if pressed. It certainly beats the sullen prick I used to find more likely just a few short months ago.
I pointed this out to Momma last night, and she was kind enough to have noticed as well. I'm not sure kind enough is really where we're going here, but it helps that I'm not deluding myself.
What to do with this? Not a fucking thing as far as I can tell. I'm sure it's a case of just is, as I pointed out earlier. It doesn't bother me in the least, and if it bothers you then be glad you only have to deal with my drunk ass through the tubes that are the internets. And girl just be yourself.
And speak for yourself, Mary!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
e for something
Doc thinks I'm an excellent blogger and has included me in some pretty good company. Considering where else I've seen this endorsement and who else has been awarded this, I'd have to say I'm in great company. I'm going to be selfish, however, and not pass it on. I really just don't feel like it, and believe me, I've thought about it. I've saved Doc's post in my Google reader, waiting for the time I felt like sitting down and figuring out who deserves it. I could come up with several, but I really just don't feel like playing. And it's nice that I don't have to play.
I have a lot on my mind lately, as anyone can well imagine.
If you are a regular reader of Doc's and if you read her comments, then you already probably know most of this story, but I'm sharing it here anyway. I sat on it for a few days, but I need a post, and it's time.
I went to the gay bar recently. Our town actually has a few, and I've been to three so far. One was shortly after Valentine's day last year, a few days after learning Momma's news, and I stood against the wall, arms crossed, angry look in my eyes, quite likely ruining the mood for ten feet around me in any direction. I'm not sure what I had in mind that night, but it didn't help anyone.
The next time I went to this particular bar I had fun, but nothing came of it but me drinking a wee bit more than I needed to have. Another gay bar I've been to has been on the night that it doesn't really function as a gay bar. A friend of ours does an alternative dance party there on Saturday nights. What this means is that a few gay people and lots of guys who look like they collect swords and/or knives with dragons on the handles, guys who like girls but can't convince them to join them for any sort of fun, hang out while a few of them dance poorly to a broad array of not necessarily dance music.
Then we come to the gay bar I most recently visited. With me was Momma, a lesbian friend and a gay male friend who called a taxi and fled when it seemed we weren't going to leave when we'd promised him we would. We would have, but since he fled we didn't have to, though we pretty much did.
I had a good time at this particular bar on this particular night, even if I did hang out with girls, much too nervous to interact with any of the lovely gay boys in attendance, the ones I should have been hanging out with. On a side note, Momma won a prize playing bingo, and I got some under the shirt action from the drag queen running bingo. She also wants to wash and cut my hair.
And that is me as a gay man, happier with the girls because the boys, hot though they are, make me nervous. I'm sure if one of them had talked to me I'd have done the giggle Japanese style, hiding my mouth with my hand, looking appropriately bashful. I need to do something about that.
All in all it was a fun night. I'm sure I'm not nearly gay enough in my flannel shirt and biker jacket with the punk rock buttons on the lapels, but it's what I know. Also I don't have any appropriately gay clothing. I'm not sure what that means, but my sense of style certainly leaves something to be desired, and when I do go out, I'm afraid the gays assume I'm not one of them because I certainly don't look it. I'm sure there's a remedy for that somewhere, and I'm sure one day I'll care enough to change my entire wardrobe in the interest of looking gayer . . . or not.
I have a lot on my mind lately, as anyone can well imagine.
If you are a regular reader of Doc's and if you read her comments, then you already probably know most of this story, but I'm sharing it here anyway. I sat on it for a few days, but I need a post, and it's time.
I went to the gay bar recently. Our town actually has a few, and I've been to three so far. One was shortly after Valentine's day last year, a few days after learning Momma's news, and I stood against the wall, arms crossed, angry look in my eyes, quite likely ruining the mood for ten feet around me in any direction. I'm not sure what I had in mind that night, but it didn't help anyone.
The next time I went to this particular bar I had fun, but nothing came of it but me drinking a wee bit more than I needed to have. Another gay bar I've been to has been on the night that it doesn't really function as a gay bar. A friend of ours does an alternative dance party there on Saturday nights. What this means is that a few gay people and lots of guys who look like they collect swords and/or knives with dragons on the handles, guys who like girls but can't convince them to join them for any sort of fun, hang out while a few of them dance poorly to a broad array of not necessarily dance music.
Then we come to the gay bar I most recently visited. With me was Momma, a lesbian friend and a gay male friend who called a taxi and fled when it seemed we weren't going to leave when we'd promised him we would. We would have, but since he fled we didn't have to, though we pretty much did.
I had a good time at this particular bar on this particular night, even if I did hang out with girls, much too nervous to interact with any of the lovely gay boys in attendance, the ones I should have been hanging out with. On a side note, Momma won a prize playing bingo, and I got some under the shirt action from the drag queen running bingo. She also wants to wash and cut my hair.
And that is me as a gay man, happier with the girls because the boys, hot though they are, make me nervous. I'm sure if one of them had talked to me I'd have done the giggle Japanese style, hiding my mouth with my hand, looking appropriately bashful. I need to do something about that.
All in all it was a fun night. I'm sure I'm not nearly gay enough in my flannel shirt and biker jacket with the punk rock buttons on the lapels, but it's what I know. Also I don't have any appropriately gay clothing. I'm not sure what that means, but my sense of style certainly leaves something to be desired, and when I do go out, I'm afraid the gays assume I'm not one of them because I certainly don't look it. I'm sure there's a remedy for that somewhere, and I'm sure one day I'll care enough to change my entire wardrobe in the interest of looking gayer . . . or not.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
ranting again
Why do I use Restalyne? Because he thinks I'm younger than I am. So goes the line in an especially galling commercial advertising a product that one injects into their face to smooth out the lines and wrinkles one earns as part of growing older.
The commercial pisses me off every time I see it, because they are basically suggesting that it's completely okay to base a relationship on lies. I'm sure we all know how well that works, and those of us with first hand experience can second that particular emotion.
On some level I don't suppose I really care too horribly much that some people are insecure about their appearance to the point they are willing to inject toxins into their skin in order to appear younger than they really are. It is extremely galling however to have it sold to us on the basis of lying to the significant other that we probably claim to love.
How strong a relationship do you imagine you have if you are so willingly deceiving someone? And if this deception is okay to the woman in question then at what point would she draw the line beyond which lies are not okay? In my opinion, you can't accept any lie without accepting all lies.
And yes, I completely understand that this is an ad, that the people in the ad are actors and that it's par for the course in the world of advertising consumer products, but at some point we have to accept that there is some amount of mirror between how we live and how we accept that advertising of consumer products.
In the end, it's just one more commercial that pisses me off, and it's really fucking easy for advertising to piss me off. I may in fact be one of the single most irritating people with which to watch television.
I'm just saying is all.
The commercial pisses me off every time I see it, because they are basically suggesting that it's completely okay to base a relationship on lies. I'm sure we all know how well that works, and those of us with first hand experience can second that particular emotion.
On some level I don't suppose I really care too horribly much that some people are insecure about their appearance to the point they are willing to inject toxins into their skin in order to appear younger than they really are. It is extremely galling however to have it sold to us on the basis of lying to the significant other that we probably claim to love.
How strong a relationship do you imagine you have if you are so willingly deceiving someone? And if this deception is okay to the woman in question then at what point would she draw the line beyond which lies are not okay? In my opinion, you can't accept any lie without accepting all lies.
And yes, I completely understand that this is an ad, that the people in the ad are actors and that it's par for the course in the world of advertising consumer products, but at some point we have to accept that there is some amount of mirror between how we live and how we accept that advertising of consumer products.
In the end, it's just one more commercial that pisses me off, and it's really fucking easy for advertising to piss me off. I may in fact be one of the single most irritating people with which to watch television.
I'm just saying is all.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
sounds of stomach churning
I'm having to force myself not to even look anywhere near The Boy right now. For all the trouble we have getting him to eat reasonably healthy, there are a few foods that he does love.
Momma worked in the daytime yesterday, and as a nice surprise for the boys she brought home some sushi. When she brings sushi she'll often make at least one roll with soy paper and no raw fish, just in case I feel like having a little something. If it's a roll that usually gets roe she will put it in a little to go cup on the side and put it on to serve it.
The boys ate their sushi last night but didn't eat all the roe. There was some small amount left which The Boy is now eating. He has a little plate with some pickled ginger and a lime wedge and the little container of tiny orange flying fish eggs.
I tried roe once. It was salmon eggs, so they were a little bigger than what The Boy is eating. I remember it vividly because it was one of the few times I've actually had to scrape my tongue to get the nastiness off of it. I remember spitting it directly into the garbage can and probably even considered washing the taste away with a handful of that garbage. It was seriously the singly most foul taste to ever enter my world.
So as the boy sits with his little container, eating the fish eggs with a spoon, I find that I can't even look anywhere hear where he sits.
Fish eggs . . . bleurgh . . . ach . . . ick . . . shiver . . . shudder . . .
Momma worked in the daytime yesterday, and as a nice surprise for the boys she brought home some sushi. When she brings sushi she'll often make at least one roll with soy paper and no raw fish, just in case I feel like having a little something. If it's a roll that usually gets roe she will put it in a little to go cup on the side and put it on to serve it.
The boys ate their sushi last night but didn't eat all the roe. There was some small amount left which The Boy is now eating. He has a little plate with some pickled ginger and a lime wedge and the little container of tiny orange flying fish eggs.
I tried roe once. It was salmon eggs, so they were a little bigger than what The Boy is eating. I remember it vividly because it was one of the few times I've actually had to scrape my tongue to get the nastiness off of it. I remember spitting it directly into the garbage can and probably even considered washing the taste away with a handful of that garbage. It was seriously the singly most foul taste to ever enter my world.
So as the boy sits with his little container, eating the fish eggs with a spoon, I find that I can't even look anywhere hear where he sits.
Fish eggs . . . bleurgh . . . ach . . . ick . . . shiver . . . shudder . . .
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
qotd
Post fodder or just a thing I keep forgetting to do? Either way, thanks again to The Quotations Page, a quote of the day. Who doesn't love Oscar Wilde?
The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated.and for the hell of it another:
Work is the curse of the drinking class.
video time
It's time for a new video. I forget exactly where I heard of this band, though I do know it was one of the gay bloggers that are new to my reader, not that that matters.
The singer is Sam Duckworth, and the band is Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. Yes, a bit of a mouthful for a name as far as that goes. So far I've only heard his songs that I can run across on YouTube or his Myspace page. I've really enjoyed what I've heard and need to get around to getting a cd.
It doesn't hurt that he's a cutie, though a hair cut wouldn't hurt at all.
This video is for the song Call Me Ishmael and is perfect for all the time card punchers and wage slaves out there.
The singer is Sam Duckworth, and the band is Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. Yes, a bit of a mouthful for a name as far as that goes. So far I've only heard his songs that I can run across on YouTube or his Myspace page. I've really enjoyed what I've heard and need to get around to getting a cd.
It doesn't hurt that he's a cutie, though a hair cut wouldn't hurt at all.
This video is for the song Call Me Ishmael and is perfect for all the time card punchers and wage slaves out there.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
link love
How late am I? Not more than a few weeks in this instance. I've been meaning to direct you to the coolest new blog around, and I'm sure I have a perfectly valid excuse for not doing so sooner, but it doesn't come to mind at the moment.
The lovely and talented One L has a really cool blog that she's started, The Music Chamber. I read, though usually without commenting, because I can never think of anything good to say.
Head on over. Being Tuesday, it's open mic, so you can listen to some other equally lovely people play guitar and/or sing or maybe just slap a pair of spoons against their thigh.
Then make sure you put The Music Chamber in you blog reader of choice so that you never miss a post.
The lovely and talented One L has a really cool blog that she's started, The Music Chamber. I read, though usually without commenting, because I can never think of anything good to say.
Head on over. Being Tuesday, it's open mic, so you can listen to some other equally lovely people play guitar and/or sing or maybe just slap a pair of spoons against their thigh.
Then make sure you put The Music Chamber in you blog reader of choice so that you never miss a post.
poor dumb Romney
uuuummmmmm . . . I lifted this from the local news blogging site. The person who posted it there titled his post Awkward, and I don't know of a better title. I'm just a little on the dumbfounded side here. Just watch, and feel free to tell me what you think.
Monday, January 21, 2008
please don't ask me how I ended up at my wit's end
I don't know how many posts I can start and delete. Tonight alone I'm up to four. It's like I have something I need to dump out, but every attempt just comes back around to poor-pitiful-me, and that's the last place I need to keep going.
The problem is that I keep letting myself get stuck in the evil mud of depression and self pity. I feel useless like that last square of toilet paper that you can't get off the roll without it ripping to shreds, and I know better.
Am I really just stuck in bad place, or do I just keep not doing the things to pull myself out? In the deep dark of feeling bad it's hard to ask that question, but answering it would really help.
In the deep dark it feels good to wallow in the misery, but when I force myself to try and write I realize that it's too often self imposed. Writing forces me to think and examine what I think I think. I don't have to feel this way, but it's so much easier. It really is just a matter of time and place, and I need to figure out what it takes to get out of here. The sad truth is that the self medication of the drink is the biggest help right now, and I'm already close enough to being a drunk without the added aid from the feelings.
Some amount of it is still guilt at having hidden and buried my own gayness for so long that I involved Momma in this to such an extent that I not only allowed her to believe things that just weren't true but went out of my way to make her believe. That was a shitty thing to do, and it's hard to accept that I'm as much a victim of this idiocy I nursed as she is.
The real problem in all of this is that I keep not doing the things it would take to help myself. I'm so used to inaction, I'm so used to being passive, I'm so used to just sitting back and letting life pass by. It's hard to break that habit.
I'm completely accepting of the fact that none of what I've just written makes a whole lot of sense. I'm fine for the moment with things not making sense. It's just how things have to be right now. And having said all that I know that it's really up to me. It's work, and I hate the very idea of having to do that work. But more than that I hate where I keep finding myself when I don't do that work, so it's time to shit or get off the pot.
post title taken from the Rise Against song Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.
The problem is that I keep letting myself get stuck in the evil mud of depression and self pity. I feel useless like that last square of toilet paper that you can't get off the roll without it ripping to shreds, and I know better.
Am I really just stuck in bad place, or do I just keep not doing the things to pull myself out? In the deep dark of feeling bad it's hard to ask that question, but answering it would really help.
In the deep dark it feels good to wallow in the misery, but when I force myself to try and write I realize that it's too often self imposed. Writing forces me to think and examine what I think I think. I don't have to feel this way, but it's so much easier. It really is just a matter of time and place, and I need to figure out what it takes to get out of here. The sad truth is that the self medication of the drink is the biggest help right now, and I'm already close enough to being a drunk without the added aid from the feelings.
Some amount of it is still guilt at having hidden and buried my own gayness for so long that I involved Momma in this to such an extent that I not only allowed her to believe things that just weren't true but went out of my way to make her believe. That was a shitty thing to do, and it's hard to accept that I'm as much a victim of this idiocy I nursed as she is.
The real problem in all of this is that I keep not doing the things it would take to help myself. I'm so used to inaction, I'm so used to being passive, I'm so used to just sitting back and letting life pass by. It's hard to break that habit.
I'm completely accepting of the fact that none of what I've just written makes a whole lot of sense. I'm fine for the moment with things not making sense. It's just how things have to be right now. And having said all that I know that it's really up to me. It's work, and I hate the very idea of having to do that work. But more than that I hate where I keep finding myself when I don't do that work, so it's time to shit or get off the pot.
post title taken from the Rise Against song Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
buckle that baby
Local blogger Katie Allison Granju is asking about car seats. Her newish baby is growing too big for what she refers to as the baby bucket, and she's interested in reader opinions about the next seat.
Child safety seats always remind me of growing up and the seats we had when I was a child. Born in the early seventies, I'm a product of that era before seat belt laws and mandatory safety seats for children based on age and weight.
If I remember correctly, my mother told me once about the seats her children rode home in as newborns, a laundry basket lined with blankets, probably crammed safely on the floor between the front seats. My brother can comment and point out how wrong my memory may be or possibly add some color commentary.
After the van broke down for the last time we rode for a few years in a Volkswagen Beetle. We had to look like the clown car family as we arrived at church and proved that you actually could fit eight or nine people in a VW Beetle. Sometime after this we moved up to a large sedan, Ford LTD, then on to a full size station wagon.
Smaller brothers sat on older brother's laps while the middle brothers got to perch on the front of the seat, kind of like staggering horizontally stacked butts. The youngest brother generally got to stand in the middle of the front seat until he was too big to stand. The nearly youngest brother would sometimes ride in the rear area beneath the rear window. The station wagon was great, but I don't remember often using the rear most seat as there was much more room if we left the seat down and just sat in the space at the back on top of the folded down seat.
Seat belts I remember as those filthy things crammed down into the seats, those things we sometimes had to pull out of the way as we searched down in the crack between the seat back and the seat itself. Once we'd retrieved our pencil or quarter or whatever, we'd cram the seat belts back down into the crack. The closest I remember coming to a seat belt for many years was, when sitting in the front seat, my mother's arm thrown out in front of us as she came to a quick stop.
I'm not waxing poetic about those heady and carefree days of yon. I'm completely fine with the fact that my children are safer in the event of an accident. Most of the time I've been driving there have been seat belt laws in effect, and all the time that I've had children there have been laws mandating that they be safely buckled in.
It's fine, good in fact, and I'm quite beyond being used to it. It's an ingrained habit to not even put the car in gear till I've made sure that all passengers are safely buckled in, and I've even taught the boys to alert me if I happen to forget and the car begins to move before they've gotten their seat belts buckled. And even through all that, it's also somehow an ingrained habit to throw my arm up sometimes when making a quick stop. It's just one more thing my mother has given me.
Child safety seats always remind me of growing up and the seats we had when I was a child. Born in the early seventies, I'm a product of that era before seat belt laws and mandatory safety seats for children based on age and weight.
If I remember correctly, my mother told me once about the seats her children rode home in as newborns, a laundry basket lined with blankets, probably crammed safely on the floor between the front seats. My brother can comment and point out how wrong my memory may be or possibly add some color commentary.
After the van broke down for the last time we rode for a few years in a Volkswagen Beetle. We had to look like the clown car family as we arrived at church and proved that you actually could fit eight or nine people in a VW Beetle. Sometime after this we moved up to a large sedan, Ford LTD, then on to a full size station wagon.
Smaller brothers sat on older brother's laps while the middle brothers got to perch on the front of the seat, kind of like staggering horizontally stacked butts. The youngest brother generally got to stand in the middle of the front seat until he was too big to stand. The nearly youngest brother would sometimes ride in the rear area beneath the rear window. The station wagon was great, but I don't remember often using the rear most seat as there was much more room if we left the seat down and just sat in the space at the back on top of the folded down seat.
Seat belts I remember as those filthy things crammed down into the seats, those things we sometimes had to pull out of the way as we searched down in the crack between the seat back and the seat itself. Once we'd retrieved our pencil or quarter or whatever, we'd cram the seat belts back down into the crack. The closest I remember coming to a seat belt for many years was, when sitting in the front seat, my mother's arm thrown out in front of us as she came to a quick stop.
I'm not waxing poetic about those heady and carefree days of yon. I'm completely fine with the fact that my children are safer in the event of an accident. Most of the time I've been driving there have been seat belt laws in effect, and all the time that I've had children there have been laws mandating that they be safely buckled in.
It's fine, good in fact, and I'm quite beyond being used to it. It's an ingrained habit to not even put the car in gear till I've made sure that all passengers are safely buckled in, and I've even taught the boys to alert me if I happen to forget and the car begins to move before they've gotten their seat belts buckled. And even through all that, it's also somehow an ingrained habit to throw my arm up sometimes when making a quick stop. It's just one more thing my mother has given me.
Friday, January 18, 2008
absolutely nothing
It's just after one in the morning, and it's not nearly as cold outside as it should be, or maybe it just doesn't feel as cold as it is.
Last night's/this morning's weather report for my town and the local area was the most convoluted I've ever heard. We were basically told to expect rain and sleet then rain and snow then rain and sleet and snow then snow and sleet then sleet and snow then . . . you get the picture. At one point late last night (wee early hours) while Momma and I were darting to the garage to smoke, we could hear the sleet hitting the ground. When we looked into the streetlight we could see snow blowing around. When I woke this morning, all that was left was a tiny, maybe two cups worth, collection of snow, blown against the base of a neighbor's tree.
I woke up this morning pissed off and depressed. Part of that was due to sleeping too late. Momma and I have been staying up way too late lately, and when we have a deep heart to heart, we can excuse it. Last night was not that, just too much sitting up and not going to bed. I can be a bit of a butthole if I sleep too late. I'm honestly better off waking at a reasonable time with too little sleep.
We did get to watch the newest Project Runway, and how Rami and his smug ass attitude is still there I don't know. I hated Christian when we were watching commercials and waiting for the season to begin, but as the show continues I find myself liking him even more. He's a little sweetheart even if his hair is seven shades of fucked up. And just in case he happens to read this, STOP TUCKING YOUR FUCKING PANTS INTO YOUR BOOTS!!! So not cool.
I'm kind of craving a tiny square chicken sandwich and a tiny square bacon cheeseburger, but I hate to waste eating fast food when we don't really need it. It's much better when it's more needed, but I for real have some munchies and am much too lazy to want to eat anything we have here.
Speaking of what we have here, tonight's supper was roast chicken and fettuccine alfredo with onions, yellow bell pepper and zucchini. The half wit bagger at the grocery store, the sawed off little shit that isn't quite mentally as there as one might wish, did his usual suck job bagging my groceries, zucchini in the same back as raw chicken, bell pepper in a bag by itself, seventeen boxes in one bag so that the handles don't quite meet . . . yeah, I should have really done it myself. However, my grocery scanner was the guy that I think is gay (not interested in him gay just that he's always been an absolute sweetheart) is always worth talking to because, as I mentioned, he's always an absolute sweetheart, and he's going through chemo, and I'd rather just be friendly and interested in his well being.
Supper was good, but I don't want leftovers the same night I made it. There's also etouffee from a couple nights ago, but Momma hasn't had any yet, and I'd rather save it for tomorrow when she'll need a quick meal on her way out the door to work.
That's not even close to an update, but it is what it is. I should probably just call it by its name, post fodder, but we'll pretend it's important and that we've learned something from it.
Last night's/this morning's weather report for my town and the local area was the most convoluted I've ever heard. We were basically told to expect rain and sleet then rain and snow then rain and sleet and snow then snow and sleet then sleet and snow then . . . you get the picture. At one point late last night (wee early hours) while Momma and I were darting to the garage to smoke, we could hear the sleet hitting the ground. When we looked into the streetlight we could see snow blowing around. When I woke this morning, all that was left was a tiny, maybe two cups worth, collection of snow, blown against the base of a neighbor's tree.
I woke up this morning pissed off and depressed. Part of that was due to sleeping too late. Momma and I have been staying up way too late lately, and when we have a deep heart to heart, we can excuse it. Last night was not that, just too much sitting up and not going to bed. I can be a bit of a butthole if I sleep too late. I'm honestly better off waking at a reasonable time with too little sleep.
We did get to watch the newest Project Runway, and how Rami and his smug ass attitude is still there I don't know. I hated Christian when we were watching commercials and waiting for the season to begin, but as the show continues I find myself liking him even more. He's a little sweetheart even if his hair is seven shades of fucked up. And just in case he happens to read this, STOP TUCKING YOUR FUCKING PANTS INTO YOUR BOOTS!!! So not cool.
I'm kind of craving a tiny square chicken sandwich and a tiny square bacon cheeseburger, but I hate to waste eating fast food when we don't really need it. It's much better when it's more needed, but I for real have some munchies and am much too lazy to want to eat anything we have here.
Speaking of what we have here, tonight's supper was roast chicken and fettuccine alfredo with onions, yellow bell pepper and zucchini. The half wit bagger at the grocery store, the sawed off little shit that isn't quite mentally as there as one might wish, did his usual suck job bagging my groceries, zucchini in the same back as raw chicken, bell pepper in a bag by itself, seventeen boxes in one bag so that the handles don't quite meet . . . yeah, I should have really done it myself. However, my grocery scanner was the guy that I think is gay (not interested in him gay just that he's always been an absolute sweetheart) is always worth talking to because, as I mentioned, he's always an absolute sweetheart, and he's going through chemo, and I'd rather just be friendly and interested in his well being.
Supper was good, but I don't want leftovers the same night I made it. There's also etouffee from a couple nights ago, but Momma hasn't had any yet, and I'd rather save it for tomorrow when she'll need a quick meal on her way out the door to work.
That's not even close to an update, but it is what it is. I should probably just call it by its name, post fodder, but we'll pretend it's important and that we've learned something from it.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
she rocks
It seems a little ridiculous to even mention this in 2008, but women in rock still seem relegated to either the bass player or as a member of the all girl band that no one cares about once they realize that the members aren't knocking themselves out to be sexy for the boys. I mention this because today's band features a woman as both lead singer and guitar player.
The video below is The Muffs. It isn't one of their newer songs, but it is a good one, as if they were able to put out a bad song. This is the band that's been pushing Rufus out of the cd player lately.
It could easily be argued that there are sweeter and/or more beautiful voices in music, but for a straight up, basic rock and roll band, Kim absolutely kills it. Wait till about 2:30 when she belts out a scream, the absolute best scream in rock music.
The video is their song Outer Space.
The video below is The Muffs. It isn't one of their newer songs, but it is a good one, as if they were able to put out a bad song. This is the band that's been pushing Rufus out of the cd player lately.
It could easily be argued that there are sweeter and/or more beautiful voices in music, but for a straight up, basic rock and roll band, Kim absolutely kills it. Wait till about 2:30 when she belts out a scream, the absolute best scream in rock music.
The video is their song Outer Space.
momma gets her turn
Momma has a blog, though as of now her three posts amount to one a year. Her newest was written two days ago and has to do with the entirety of 2007, at least as far as our relationship goes. Go and read it HERE, and then come back for my own additional thoughts.
Right, so you read it? Because what I have to say may not make much sense if you didn't.
If you did read, then you've seen now the catalyst, the spark that finally allowed/forced me out of the closet. Now for some things that are hard to admit.
I never really believed that she was the one. I thought on some level that she must be and maybe even wanted her to be, and I, most of the time, thought of us as together forever. But all along I knew better. All along I wished that she'd do something to give me an excuse. I knew the truth, yet never felt I could admit to it or do anything about it.
Her sneaking around and being dishonest are quite understandable given the nature of her nocturnal activities. The actions that called for the sneaking and dishonesty are harder to understand, but through discussions she and I have had, I've come to understand her and her motivations to some extent. Her youth gave her own sexual nature plenty of fuel to be confusing to her, and I can completely understand that all of that led her to where she found herself.
In her post Momma mentions my forgiveness. We shared dishonesty, both of our own kind, and I completely forgive her dishonesty. Considering the fuel mentioned above, considering what she's shared with me about her childhood and youth, I don't feel that her actions need to be forgiven. I can't blame her for being confused. I can't blame her for sex and sexual issues getting the best of her. I am equally to blame if we never were completely honest with each other before being forced to. Perhaps if she and I had talked more and more honestly a few years ago then things wouldn't have progressed to the point they did. It isn't that I don't forgive her, because I completely do forgive her the things I think she truly had control over. A person's nature doesn't need forgiveness any more than you can forgive a candle for giving light.
But then comes all the other stuff. We've had a great time together over the years. We have produced two wonderful children through this. We have a strong and wonderful friendship. How much of this would be possible if I'd come all the way out earlier in my life? Where would we be if we'd never gotten together in the first place?
Right, so you read it? Because what I have to say may not make much sense if you didn't.
If you did read, then you've seen now the catalyst, the spark that finally allowed/forced me out of the closet. Now for some things that are hard to admit.
I never really believed that she was the one. I thought on some level that she must be and maybe even wanted her to be, and I, most of the time, thought of us as together forever. But all along I knew better. All along I wished that she'd do something to give me an excuse. I knew the truth, yet never felt I could admit to it or do anything about it.
Her sneaking around and being dishonest are quite understandable given the nature of her nocturnal activities. The actions that called for the sneaking and dishonesty are harder to understand, but through discussions she and I have had, I've come to understand her and her motivations to some extent. Her youth gave her own sexual nature plenty of fuel to be confusing to her, and I can completely understand that all of that led her to where she found herself.
In her post Momma mentions my forgiveness. We shared dishonesty, both of our own kind, and I completely forgive her dishonesty. Considering the fuel mentioned above, considering what she's shared with me about her childhood and youth, I don't feel that her actions need to be forgiven. I can't blame her for being confused. I can't blame her for sex and sexual issues getting the best of her. I am equally to blame if we never were completely honest with each other before being forced to. Perhaps if she and I had talked more and more honestly a few years ago then things wouldn't have progressed to the point they did. It isn't that I don't forgive her, because I completely do forgive her the things I think she truly had control over. A person's nature doesn't need forgiveness any more than you can forgive a candle for giving light.
But then comes all the other stuff. We've had a great time together over the years. We have produced two wonderful children through this. We have a strong and wonderful friendship. How much of this would be possible if I'd come all the way out earlier in my life? Where would we be if we'd never gotten together in the first place?
Monday, January 14, 2008
zero percent
| Your Political Profile: |
 Overall: 15% Conservative, 85% Liberal Social Issues: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal Defense and Crime: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal |
It's not that this silly thing is not indicative to some extent, but some of the questions were really poorly worded, while all the questions offered no more than two options as answers. There really has to be room for the various shades between yes and no.
So on Social Issues and Ethics I'm zero percent conservative? And I get twenty five percent conservative on fiscal issues and personal responsibility? Again, the wording of the questions and the available options don't really allow one to explore the issues very much.
Seems though I may have done this one before. This time it's thanks to Meg at Get In, Hang On.
the dreams post
Momma has dreams, things that she really wants to do. I have things that seem impossible, so why should I bother.
A line that's run through my head so often lately, a line I've typed into posts I've begun and deleted, I was not raised to follow dreams; I was raised to do what god told me to do.
I don't intend to blame my parents for where I am now, but I can't help sometimes but wonder, the whole nature versus nurture argument tag teaming with the absurdity of my insular childhood and youth. Keener minds than mine have wrestled with this, and I'd love to think they've gotten closer than I have, but part of me doubts very much.
Who doesn't want to write the great American novel? And I'm so sure I'm the guy to do it. What story could be more American? Ultra religious childhood, rebellious teen years, acceptance of at least bisexuality coupled with some amount of experimentation, decade plus heterosexual relationship with attendant children with the first volume published ending in the early coming out years. Seriously, find more American than that. I'd like to see you try.
As a child I was sure I was going to be either a missionary or that I would work in advertising. How the advertising part came in I can only imagine due to some childhood fixation with the show Thirtysomething. I'm not sure exactly how that works in, but it's a memory and the only logical conclusion I can draw. That I ever watched the show is possibly linked with a youthful attempt to emulate the cool brother. That those were my childhood ideas of my possible future says something.
At some point I started writing, lots of real crap for the most part, most of which I currently have in a tucked away and ignored stack of Mead composition notebooks. I don't know that I ever got to a point where I wasn't writing crap, but I did spend a few years not really writing anything. I finally discovered the joy of blogging, thanks to the coolest of homeschoolers and homeschooling families all across our bit of the continent, and at least on occasion practice writing. Writing has always been there, hanging in the background of things that I can sometimes enjoy and might not suck at.
Cooking I discovered quite by accident. As a child I helped in the kitchen by staying out of the way. At the same time, my best childhood memories of my mother involve watching Julia Child and Martha Stewart and Jeff Smith and Justin Wilson. This was when Martha was a cook and not some clenched ass lifestyle expert. Jeff Smith you'll remember from The Frugal Gourmet, while Justin Wilson brought us cajun cooking and the phrases "oooooeee" as well as "I guarawntee."(yes pronounced like that) Julia, of course, needs no introduction.
I held a number of restaurant jobs before the one I consider to be the first real one, the one that led me to a life in the kitchen, a giant whore of a place in Charlotte NC which is not so sadly no longer there. Some other idiots have bought the building by now. I washed dishes. I did a lot of LSD around this time and sometimes dreamed of squadrons of the various dishes flying in formation. I hated it and quit, swearing I'd never work in another restaurant ever again.
My next job was in a large national chain as was my next job. From there I did some work as a general laborer with a drywall contractor. It sucked, and the first chance I got I was back in a kitchen. I've done local stand alones, local chains, national chains, sports bars and once worked in a place where I cooked so many wings that we dumped cases (one case equals forty pounds) of wings into large drip pan, and I scooped them into the fryer with a two quart scoop.
I can write anytime, but the nightmare years of kitchen work made me grow a new dream. I really want to open my own restaurant. I have more ideas for places I think would work in my town, and I'm not telling you any of them. Now that I'm not in the closet I have room to hide my ideas, because I know bitches will steal my ideas.
But even so, it's hard for me to think of it as a dream, as something worth pursuing. There's a certain petulant "why can't I?" but beyond that I just don't do anything. There are also random measures of guilt and laziness and fear mixed in along with other feelings. Fucking feelings!
A line that's run through my head so often lately, a line I've typed into posts I've begun and deleted, I was not raised to follow dreams; I was raised to do what god told me to do.
I don't intend to blame my parents for where I am now, but I can't help sometimes but wonder, the whole nature versus nurture argument tag teaming with the absurdity of my insular childhood and youth. Keener minds than mine have wrestled with this, and I'd love to think they've gotten closer than I have, but part of me doubts very much.
Who doesn't want to write the great American novel? And I'm so sure I'm the guy to do it. What story could be more American? Ultra religious childhood, rebellious teen years, acceptance of at least bisexuality coupled with some amount of experimentation, decade plus heterosexual relationship with attendant children with the first volume published ending in the early coming out years. Seriously, find more American than that. I'd like to see you try.
As a child I was sure I was going to be either a missionary or that I would work in advertising. How the advertising part came in I can only imagine due to some childhood fixation with the show Thirtysomething. I'm not sure exactly how that works in, but it's a memory and the only logical conclusion I can draw. That I ever watched the show is possibly linked with a youthful attempt to emulate the cool brother. That those were my childhood ideas of my possible future says something.
At some point I started writing, lots of real crap for the most part, most of which I currently have in a tucked away and ignored stack of Mead composition notebooks. I don't know that I ever got to a point where I wasn't writing crap, but I did spend a few years not really writing anything. I finally discovered the joy of blogging, thanks to the coolest of homeschoolers and homeschooling families all across our bit of the continent, and at least on occasion practice writing. Writing has always been there, hanging in the background of things that I can sometimes enjoy and might not suck at.
Cooking I discovered quite by accident. As a child I helped in the kitchen by staying out of the way. At the same time, my best childhood memories of my mother involve watching Julia Child and Martha Stewart and Jeff Smith and Justin Wilson. This was when Martha was a cook and not some clenched ass lifestyle expert. Jeff Smith you'll remember from The Frugal Gourmet, while Justin Wilson brought us cajun cooking and the phrases "oooooeee" as well as "I guarawntee."(yes pronounced like that) Julia, of course, needs no introduction.
I held a number of restaurant jobs before the one I consider to be the first real one, the one that led me to a life in the kitchen, a giant whore of a place in Charlotte NC which is not so sadly no longer there. Some other idiots have bought the building by now. I washed dishes. I did a lot of LSD around this time and sometimes dreamed of squadrons of the various dishes flying in formation. I hated it and quit, swearing I'd never work in another restaurant ever again.
My next job was in a large national chain as was my next job. From there I did some work as a general laborer with a drywall contractor. It sucked, and the first chance I got I was back in a kitchen. I've done local stand alones, local chains, national chains, sports bars and once worked in a place where I cooked so many wings that we dumped cases (one case equals forty pounds) of wings into large drip pan, and I scooped them into the fryer with a two quart scoop.
I can write anytime, but the nightmare years of kitchen work made me grow a new dream. I really want to open my own restaurant. I have more ideas for places I think would work in my town, and I'm not telling you any of them. Now that I'm not in the closet I have room to hide my ideas, because I know bitches will steal my ideas.
But even so, it's hard for me to think of it as a dream, as something worth pursuing. There's a certain petulant "why can't I?" but beyond that I just don't do anything. There are also random measures of guilt and laziness and fear mixed in along with other feelings. Fucking feelings!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
updatey sort of thing
I feel as if I should post some sort of update, an answer to my most recent post in which I channeled my angsty and confused sixteen year old self and wrote something I would have called poetry roughly twenty years ago.
It's often hard not to feel guilty about having kept my sexuality some sort of secret for so long. It wasn't that it was a secret between Momma and me, because she knew. I, however, convinced myself I was bisexual and just accepted it as true. I should have known better, and on some level I did know better.
So we find ourselves in the here and now, and by letting the genie out and confronting it I've put a swift stop to the relationship we thought we had for so long. And it's all those years that I find myself having to figure out, except that there doesn't seem to be a lot of figuring out going on.
As one would, Momma has asked me about those years, and my best explanation is to accept that I can't explain anything. I can't help either of us make sense out of it. I have to wonder if it's just that I don't want to delve into it as opposed to not being able to make sense of the tough questions.
Momma and I had this conversation months ago. It really is settled, but like picking a scab, my brain doesn't want to let it go. I don't really know if I need those answers or if it's something to just let go of. I want to just let it go, accept that we don't always get answers, but the part of my brain that can't let go of guilt is holding onto this, demanding that I feel bad about this.
And that's where I too often end up lately. It's the stupid things that make me feel bad, and as depression does, it grows from there, sucking in anything that can add to the mix. It never takes long from there for me to slap together some overwrought post full of poor sad me sorts of themes. The difference is that this time I didn't delete it immediately.
And finally, to the people who commented to that post, I really appreciate it. It was all stuff I should and do know, but we silly humans sometimes need to hear things repeated.
It's often hard not to feel guilty about having kept my sexuality some sort of secret for so long. It wasn't that it was a secret between Momma and me, because she knew. I, however, convinced myself I was bisexual and just accepted it as true. I should have known better, and on some level I did know better.
So we find ourselves in the here and now, and by letting the genie out and confronting it I've put a swift stop to the relationship we thought we had for so long. And it's all those years that I find myself having to figure out, except that there doesn't seem to be a lot of figuring out going on.
As one would, Momma has asked me about those years, and my best explanation is to accept that I can't explain anything. I can't help either of us make sense out of it. I have to wonder if it's just that I don't want to delve into it as opposed to not being able to make sense of the tough questions.
Momma and I had this conversation months ago. It really is settled, but like picking a scab, my brain doesn't want to let it go. I don't really know if I need those answers or if it's something to just let go of. I want to just let it go, accept that we don't always get answers, but the part of my brain that can't let go of guilt is holding onto this, demanding that I feel bad about this.
And that's where I too often end up lately. It's the stupid things that make me feel bad, and as depression does, it grows from there, sucking in anything that can add to the mix. It never takes long from there for me to slap together some overwrought post full of poor sad me sorts of themes. The difference is that this time I didn't delete it immediately.
And finally, to the people who commented to that post, I really appreciate it. It was all stuff I should and do know, but we silly humans sometimes need to hear things repeated.
Friday, January 11, 2008
just click away while you can
Times I want to just dump the bucket that is my head out, just empty it and start all over. I think sometimes I should sit down and write. I think sometimes I just need a shoulder to cry on.
I even think some times that I'll be able one day to make sense out of everything. It's never happened yet, so I've got no reason to believe it one day will, but I can't stop wishing or hoping or whatever it is I'm doing.
I'm a master of the talking without so much of the walking. I'm good at putting together strings of words that make me look more a master of my domain than I really am. I'm mostly a guy in his mid thirties whose brain is stuck at a much younger place. I have a great wife and great kids and want nothing more than for a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet.
Princes aren't just ambling down the street these days. I have to accept that I am where I am and on some level give consideration to making sense of myself. Last time I set out to do that I had not only the drugs but also the time. I don't think it worked so well that time, so I'll have to find a different route.
I feel currently like I'm wasting time in a hallway lined with doors. Entering any one of the doors represents having to sink myself into and make sense of any number of questions. I don't want to do the work that involves, so I loiter in the hall a bit more, pretend I'm thinking about something important. I keep myself in a place that is safe but is stagnant.
I even think some times that I'll be able one day to make sense out of everything. It's never happened yet, so I've got no reason to believe it one day will, but I can't stop wishing or hoping or whatever it is I'm doing.
I'm a master of the talking without so much of the walking. I'm good at putting together strings of words that make me look more a master of my domain than I really am. I'm mostly a guy in his mid thirties whose brain is stuck at a much younger place. I have a great wife and great kids and want nothing more than for a handsome prince to sweep me off my feet.
Princes aren't just ambling down the street these days. I have to accept that I am where I am and on some level give consideration to making sense of myself. Last time I set out to do that I had not only the drugs but also the time. I don't think it worked so well that time, so I'll have to find a different route.
I feel currently like I'm wasting time in a hallway lined with doors. Entering any one of the doors represents having to sink myself into and make sense of any number of questions. I don't want to do the work that involves, so I loiter in the hall a bit more, pretend I'm thinking about something important. I keep myself in a place that is safe but is stagnant.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
uuuummmmmmmm. . .
I'm sorely in need of dumping my brain into a bunch of stupid words on your computer screen. But what to write about? Do I go with the softball and write about how long my hair is? Honestly, pictures of me from over thirty years ago show the only other time it's been this long, and it's a totally new experience made more so by over a decade of voluntary head shaving. It's just weird, and it's not really thaaaat long.
I looked through my reader to learn that the number of gay specific blogs and news sources is nearly equal to the total of homeschool related feeds. I find that a lot of the gay blogs I'm most drawn to are guys discussing coming out, though most of them are a bit younger than me with a bit less of the history.
I could tell the story about going to see a local rock band and the guitar player of the other band that played, the band from halfway across the state, the guitar player that couldn't not be gay. He had to be. And I kind of think I may have made an ass out of myself I realized walking away with the seven inch and t shirt for ten dollars. For what it's worth they really were good live, and he threw in their cd for free, so . . .
We also have soccer sign ups this weekend.
I looked through my reader to learn that the number of gay specific blogs and news sources is nearly equal to the total of homeschool related feeds. I find that a lot of the gay blogs I'm most drawn to are guys discussing coming out, though most of them are a bit younger than me with a bit less of the history.
I could tell the story about going to see a local rock band and the guitar player of the other band that played, the band from halfway across the state, the guitar player that couldn't not be gay. He had to be. And I kind of think I may have made an ass out of myself I realized walking away with the seven inch and t shirt for ten dollars. For what it's worth they really were good live, and he threw in their cd for free, so . . .
We also have soccer sign ups this weekend.
Monday, January 07, 2008
more vendaloo?
If you'd like, play the following song and scroll down for more vendaloo news. Visit Molly and tell her thanks for, not only getting this song stuck in my head, but also for this attempt I'm making to lodge it even more in your head. If you aren't sure what the hell I'm talking about then by all means listen to the song. It's great.
Please feel free, if you think you know better, to tell me in the comments what a vedaloo actually should be. Keep in mind that I'm making it from our beloved friend Ms. Joy.
Vinegar, olive oil, garlic, ginger, curry powder, mustard seeds, cumin, cardamom, cloves, crushed red pepper all go into the blender and come out a thick and smelly and yellow mess. It then gets tossed with two pounds of pork, cut into one inch cubes, for one to eight hours. When you're ready too cook the pork you cook some sliced onions in a pot, add your pork, a can of diced tomatoes and a cinnomon stick. Cook it till the pork is at is tastiest, stir in some more mustard seeds, let it thicken and add some cilantro.
So, even with my almost need to follow a recipe at least the first time, I used rice vinegar though the recipe called for white wine. The (preferably black) that followed each mention of mustard seeds translated to brown being the darkest mustard seed we had, and I wasn't going all the way to the coop for mustard seeds. And instead of pork loin or shoulder as requested I went with a cheaper cut thinking the stewing would work fine on this particular cut, and all the loins and/or shoulders were twice as big as I needed. Also I forgot to add the cilantro at the end, which I realized as I was finishing eating and wondering how I could make it better. Finally, we didn't have the rice we should have had, and I used sushi rice. I just didn't like it in this.
What made it better? Coconut milk and not sushi rice and not forgetting the cilantro. After I looked a little more I realized that we did indeed have a long grain white rice, which was better than sushi rice but not nearly as perfect for this as jasmine rice, which we don't currently have.
I'm sure the addition of coconut milk made is so not vendaloo anymore, and I really don't care. And that's the end of of this round. One begs me to make vendaloo again and to write about it again. That's how these things go. But really, we just can't know. I'll definitely mess around with curries, but will I attempt the vendaloo again? Actually yes, because the more I think about it the more I really do care. What is this dish, this vendaloo? I'm afraid I might have to actually bother looking around. I mean, it has a song not not about it for fuck sakes.
Please feel free, if you think you know better, to tell me in the comments what a vedaloo actually should be. Keep in mind that I'm making it from our beloved friend Ms. Joy.
Vinegar, olive oil, garlic, ginger, curry powder, mustard seeds, cumin, cardamom, cloves, crushed red pepper all go into the blender and come out a thick and smelly and yellow mess. It then gets tossed with two pounds of pork, cut into one inch cubes, for one to eight hours. When you're ready too cook the pork you cook some sliced onions in a pot, add your pork, a can of diced tomatoes and a cinnomon stick. Cook it till the pork is at is tastiest, stir in some more mustard seeds, let it thicken and add some cilantro.
So, even with my almost need to follow a recipe at least the first time, I used rice vinegar though the recipe called for white wine. The (preferably black) that followed each mention of mustard seeds translated to brown being the darkest mustard seed we had, and I wasn't going all the way to the coop for mustard seeds. And instead of pork loin or shoulder as requested I went with a cheaper cut thinking the stewing would work fine on this particular cut, and all the loins and/or shoulders were twice as big as I needed. Also I forgot to add the cilantro at the end, which I realized as I was finishing eating and wondering how I could make it better. Finally, we didn't have the rice we should have had, and I used sushi rice. I just didn't like it in this.
What made it better? Coconut milk and not sushi rice and not forgetting the cilantro. After I looked a little more I realized that we did indeed have a long grain white rice, which was better than sushi rice but not nearly as perfect for this as jasmine rice, which we don't currently have.
I'm sure the addition of coconut milk made is so not vendaloo anymore, and I really don't care. And that's the end of of this round. One begs me to make vendaloo again and to write about it again. That's how these things go. But really, we just can't know. I'll definitely mess around with curries, but will I attempt the vendaloo again? Actually yes, because the more I think about it the more I really do care. What is this dish, this vendaloo? I'm afraid I might have to actually bother looking around. I mean, it has a song not not about it for fuck sakes.
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