A Really Good Recipe

Tried this out last night, and it made for a great meal, so I thought I would pass it on to the legions of readers who hang on my every work. Ha!

It wasn’t a hard or complicated recipe, and it sure did the trick.

I cook like a man, which is to say I don’t measure anything, so you’ll just have to follow along and use your own culinary skill to figure out the missing pieces. I’ll try to spell the recipe out in the correct order, but you can mix it up a little if you like.

First thing to do is plant wife at bar on the other side of the sink which divides kitchen from eating area. Engage said wife in not to meaningful conversation about your day. Use the following recipe to make two wicked margaritas, Four parts exceptionally good tequila, I prefer Hornitos Plata. One part Rose’s lime juice, four parts Crystal Light Lemonade, shake over cracked ice and pour into salted rim Rita glasses. Don’t laugh about the lemonade till you tried it. Next step is pour Margarita into said wife.

Now for the entree. Pound out a few boneless chicken breasts to about a 1/4 inch thickness with a meat mallet, coke bottle, of even an empty Hornitos bottle. Season chicken with kosher salt and fresh ground pepper. Dust both sides with flour. Now dredge the floured chicken breasts in a pretty thin egg and water mixture, and then into Italian Bread Crumbs (buy’em at the store). Drink a little more of the Rita, and don’t forget to talk to wife.

Get a skillet or pan that you can put in the oven. Heat olive oil in the skillet, and brown the chicken on both sides. When the chicken is browned, lightly cover chicken with your favorite spaghetti sauce (Please, something other than Ragu), shred some Parmigianino or even better asiago cheese on top. Place in a 350 oven for about ten minutes.

Meanwhile, boil up some angel hair pasta. Put a little olive oil in the water so the pasta separates on the plate, small gauge pasta will clump and make a mess if you don’t. Dip out the pasta, place chicken and sauce on top. Serve.

The margarita should be finished by now, the smell of the cooking should have whetted appetites, and the attention should have the bride smiling.

All in all it was a recipe for a really good evening right in the middle of the week. Just what I needed.

That wasn’t a sunspot

I know we have this global warming thing and all, but damn you couldn’t tell it from the weather we have been having in Texas since Christmas. It’s been colder that a well digger’s ass down here. To make that more insulting I intentionally chose to live in the great state of Texas just so I could ride my bike in the winter without frostbite. I endure the 108 degree commutes home in August for the privilege of riding in a light jacket and tights in January.

Well, today, the sun is out, it’s 65, and my schedule permitted, or perhaps rearranged to permit, a long ride at lunch. Oh you of the northern clime, don’t send hate mail yet, the wind was blowing about 25 mph, a fact of life for the Texas winter. Anyhoo, I noticed cars careening out of control, and all manner of aggressive honking aimed at yours truly when I hit the road.

I looked down at those lily white legs of mine and immediately understood they were glaring in the winter sun. Pardon me, scuse me for causing premature blindness. That was not a run away nuclear reactor, it was simply my pasty unfreckled gams.

Thought I would post so you would know that when the six o’clock news reports unexplained sunspot activity observed today, that it is not a premonition for the end of the world. It was only yours truly out of the first decent weather day of the year.

Everything is Just Ducky, Wait, I Meant Mucky

I am thinking of a new type of work for me. Stay with it for a sec, and I’ll explain. My track record for 2009, and now early 2010 seems to indicate that the planning and execution of any trip on my part produces copious amounts of moisture falling from the heavens. Yep, I’m gonna see if I can find work as a rainmaker.

The corporate gig is about to undergo some changes with acquisition by another Swiss mega giant. Although I don’t feel all that old in human years, corporate age is some what like the concept of dog years. Therefore, I must realize that I am approaching Jurassic age, and that does not bode well for continuing to belly up to this particular trough. Which leads me to thoughts of my next food and shelter funding endeavor.

Let’s look at the data. Fall of 2009, I coerced some buds into training all summer and traveling for a 1000 miles to North Carolina for a little bike ride. Oh yeah, we had a little rain. I heard on the news last week, that the water we saw in Hotlanta is now classified as a 10,000 year flood. Now that’s what I’m talking about!!! Biblical proportion rain. All the lakes were dried up in that part of the world, but let yours truly plan a little outdoor adventure, and we’ll just fill’em up on one shot. Wonder how much the Atlanta Water Authority would have paid to fill the water supply back up at the end of a drought summer? Of course, as has been chronicled earlier, the bike ride did indeed proceed, 10,000 year flood and all.

How bout Christmas you say? Let’s just plan to travel around the country, only to have a weather wipe out the crops in Florida and Texas, disrupt airline travel for oh about a gazillion people, and just promote general mayhem on the highways. Yep, that was me. I was out there, driving around, causing moisture of all verities to weep from the sky.

So you get the ducky part. Well how bout the mucky part.

In a misguided effort to do my thing with local Boy Scouties, I volunteered to arrange a number of backpacking shakedown trips to prepare the stalwart youths for the penultimate Scout trip to Philmont. This weekend was one of the planned trips. Forecast for the area we intended to traipse only called for 4 inches of rain in let’s say about five minutes. Well, that’s interesting because what I remember about this particular trail is that it drains like a stopped up bathtub. And it’s flat. We’re gonna need a dinghy, not a tent.

Flexibility and mental agility being the order of the day, we change plans and attempt to head away from the weather. Nada. It follows. We traveled north instead of south up to a nice little trail, Cross Timbers, on Lake Texoma for our expedition. Let me tell you about this area. The ground composition is a mysterious clay which magical properties, when wet it takes on the paradoxical mix of super glue and super lubricant. For the life of me my engineering text books can not explain this phenomenon. Just for grins, the trail also hugs the shore line, following every up and down of the topography. The climbs aren’t long, but wickedly steep.

Let’s see, put 40 lbs or so on your back. Apply one to two inches of super slippery, super heavy, super sticky gumbo to the bottom of your boots. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, bring approximately a dozen 12 to 14 yr olds with you for grins. Just for entertainment throw in intermittent showers and about 45 degree temps. Wait, let’s up the pack weight to 45 since everything you own is now saturated with water, which by the way weighs 8.35 lbs per gallon for your factoid jonesin. After ten miles of so you get the hang of the controlled glide. It was about as close to cross country skiing as we get in Texas.

I’ll give them credit. They trooped on. I did learn that the hint of a Sonic hamburger will produce trail speeds in excess of two miles per hour. Funny how that works.

I had a ball. The adults had gumbo and yet another variant on apple something for dinner Sat night.

I’m batting a thousand on the rain. If you know of a drought that needs fixin, I have bike and pack and will travel. Will work for food, or better yet, good company.

Uh Huh, What I Got for Christmas

How about a ride in a shiny red sleigh with flashing lights and attendents who cater to every beck and call. They were out delivering presents alright, delivering me to the ER.

OOPS. I had a very interesting evening last night. I felt great all day, and in the mere time span of 15 minutes my little world took a serious turn for the worse. I’ll spare the details other than to describe it as the most violent digestive system purge that you can possibly imagine. Violent and proliferous, I say.  I was starting to feel like the actors in Alien, something is in me that wants out.

Lovely, I am at the in laws, and everyone is going out for dinner. I beg off. When they return I am really bad shape. In addtion to the inconvenience described above, I am also dealing with a low blood sugar issue. Hmmmm, yes, that’s a challenge, how do you get some food in when your body is intent on turning itself inside out. I am so dehydrated that my body is going into massive cramps.

Lovely bride gets one peek at the predicament and says “you need to go to  the hospital”. Of course I refuse, because I am the one with the clearest head. Right. Ok, we compromise, if I can get a Coke down for the sugar, then we won’t go. Should’ve listened to the girl. I lost consciousness for a second and she wisely used executive privilege and called 911.

The paramedics got here pretty quick, and right off tested my blood sugar. 32.   100 is normal, anything below about 60 and you are a wreck. Hey dude, we are surprised you are conscious much less lucid. You’re going for a ride.

IV sounds like a good idea, however, no one can find an blood vessel that will hold. Normally you can hit them with your eyes closed mine are so evident. Anyway, five or six bags of fluid, multiple doses of food in a syringe, and about a case of don’t puke your guts out meds, and I get to come home. End of drama.

Rhonda accused me of doing it because I was jealous of her broken ankle ambulance ride.

The girl took great care of me last night, I am privileged to have her as a mate. Next time, she should just override me from the start.

I wouldn’t recommend this as the Holiday weight loss plan.

RYO

Not that I would know anything about it, just heard it from some people I knew who knew some other people, but in another day RYO meant roll your own. Must have been talking about doing the toilet paper thing in the trees on their own lawn I guess. Don’t know why you would want to do that, but whatever floats your boat.

No, I am talking about Roast Your Own. I have gotten on this binge of roasting coffee beans. It started as a lark, just to see if I could do it. I justified it to the CFO, saying I would save money, given the amount of coffee I drink.

I have refined the approach from the first time, but it is still pretty simple. Put a big cast iron pot over a big flame, stir beans until sufficiently black. Remove from pot, trying not to brand yourself, and blow away the chaff.

Grind said beans and drink really strong coffee. Sweet. 

Got Me Good

We are traveling for the holidays, back east to see the folks.  So, for the adults (me) to have some time to play with the trinkets, the adults (me) declared we would do the presents a couple of weeks early.

I will admit, acknowledge, confess, and bear witness that I am a tough guy to buy for. I already have a bunch of stuff, I like “good” stuff, and I am picky, picky, picky. All of those things are amplified by about a 1000 when it comes to tools. And then when it comes to bike tools, well add another order of magnitude on the pickiness scale.

As I opened my present from the boys, I instantly recognized the blue handles that are the logo of the Park tool company. Hmmmmm, I know that I already have every bike tool made, and some others  that I made myself, so I can’t possibly figure what they have bought that isn’t already in the tool box. I am instantly trying to figure out how to smile and say thanks for getting something that I already have. After all, the idea is really nice, but the kids would have no way of knowing what is in the roll away tool shed.

A quick glance at the other end of the package, and one of the tools appears to be some sort of oversize pedal wrench. Well, OK, maybe I don’t have one of those. Sure, some of those pedals get stuck, and a long handle like that would keep me from skinning my knuckles on the chainrings.

They got me good. Look at the photo. The Park tools are real alright, cept they were made for the grill. One set of tongs made to look like cone wrenches and one spatula made to look like a pedal wrench. Got me good, I say. Now all I need is a warm evening, some brats to grill, and a couple of Fat Tire ales to aid the cooking.

Thanks boys, I appreciate the gift, but I appreciate the trick more.

Car Wars, Part II

First of all, to get Amy off my case, examine picture of one teenage son ENGAGED in the repair of HIS car.

Now, he may not have learned enough to crew chief at the next NASCAR wingding, but I took the comment to heart that I was not teaching my young men in the manly arts of impact wrenches and power tools.

What began as a simple and straightforward one hour change of tranny and differential fluid turned into, surprise surprise, a two day ordeal. I see a pattern developing here in cyberspace, it couldn’t be that all MY car projects take longer and are more involved than originally estimated, now could it. I’m sure no one else encounters such things in the project portfolio. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the ugly combination of pathological optimism and absolutely no fear anything made of steel.

So what happened? Well, thanks for asking.  I noticed while underneath that one of the shocks was dripping oil. Hmmmmm, that coupled with the squirrely freeway driving behavior indicated blown shock(s). Well, if you’re gonna change one, might as well change ‘em all. Right?

The rears were no prob. 30 minutes each, even with Jr. helping. The fronts however were a different story. For you gearheads, they are McPherson struts, and yes I knew that I had to compress the springs to get them out and the new ones in. After all, I have not one but two sets of spring compressors in the previously mentioned well stocked roll away.

It WAS a good plan, till neither set of compressors would fit in the tee ninesy space where the spring was located. Ok, no problem. Let’s use Plan B. Plan B is a little more redneck, but after all, you go with what you know. Plan B is remove the suspension components on the lower side, take impact wrench and release the nut on the top. All the pent up force of the compressed spring will cause it to come out just fine thank you very much. We did such a thing, and Jr was impressed with the commotion the spring made when released.

The trick to Plan B is to use a floor jack and carefully force the new strut and assembly back into place. It’s always worked before, but, uh……………., not this time. Too much front wheel drive stuff in the way to use the jack.

Hence starts the challenge. Four hours later, we were no closer to getting the strut back in than we we started. It’s dark, and getting cold. Jr has a date, but is too smart to mention it in Dad’s now delicate state of frustration.

Things sometimes look better with a few beers and sleep. So that was the formula I used to approach this little ankle biter. Here is the solution.

We made these hooks out of 1/4 steel bar complements of the local HD. Using the spring compressors, we compressed the springs and put the hook/keepers in place. Cept, of course it took about four trys to get it right, but that’s just trivial knuckle busting details.

Once the spring is compressed and the strut installed, we used the jack to lift that wheel, compressing the spring, and allowing us to remove the hooks.

Well, that only took about six hours to do one of the fronts. We used the jack to compress the second one, installed the hooks, removed and replaced the strut and buttoned the whole thing back up in twenty minutes. That was one steep learning curve.

Hopefully Jr will remember the innovation and not the frustration, and certainly not remember any of the unintended vocabulary expansion encountered whilst wrenching.

And just to prove his manliness, here is proof of Jr. using the impact wrench.

Mettle and Medal

The weekend prior to Thanksgiving, the bride and I returned to the scene of the crime. The crime being the totally fractured left ankle she sustained whilst running through the woods during an orientation meet. We took JR the bus back to Tyler State Park.

The fracture was nasty, requiring plates, pins and screws in three places. The recovery was just as challenging, requiring almost ten weeks of immobility. I can only imagine the physical pain that she must have endured from the moment of the break onward. But the real challenge has to have been the mental one. If I put myself in her place, those weeks of confinement had to have long moments of doubt of ever resuming the walking, hiking, and biking that she loves. We have planned our whole life after work and kids around the concept of touring the country, hiking the wilderness areas and biking every state.

The possibility of physically not being able to do that would have crushed me. The largest crane in the world could not have pulled me out of that depression. Somehow, my bride managed her way through that morass. It had it’s moments, but she kept her strength.

I watched as she has worked extremely hard at rehab, and regaining fitness. Watched as the daily walk went from living room to bathroom, living room to front door, front door to mail box, front door to end of street, front door to around the block, and then 1 mile, 2 miles, 3 miles, 4 miles, and now 5 miles. The true remaing test was to hike the uneven terrain of trails.

There had to be much trepidation on my bride’s part to return to the trails where the accident occured. There had to be much trepidation on not being able to handle the terrain. I am happy to say that the hiking went well. And in the most perverse way, I was happy that she even fell a couple of times. Huh? Yep, I would never have wished that on her, but her response after the fall tells it all. Her first words “It’s not broken”

And my feelings?   It’s not broken. My hat’s off to you baby. Your personal mettle, and the medal the good doctor gave you held. And that’s a good thing.

I think we’ll start planning our trip to Yosimite.

Oh Shut Up, and Cook

Dude from the Boy Scouts emails and wants to know if I will put on a Dutch Oven cooking class for the University of Scouting. My mom would be proud, her only son, teaching at a University. OK, maybe it’s not that big of a deal. For those of you who don’t know the joys of Dutch Oven cooking, it is a cast iron or aluminum pot that you use with coals to produce some scrumptious victuals. I fine tuned this skill during my five-year stint as a ScoutMaster, no beanie weenies for this boy.  

So I wander to the North side of Cowtown for the day of training. Haul the ovens, charcoal, handouts, and food to prepare, and unload the whole affair. No big deal. Set up my little kitchen, make coffee, and wait on the students.

The University is really designed to get the newest adult volunteers trained in many of the aspects of Scouting, and as such is usually targeted at beginners and novices. I set up my training and cooking for first timers, realizing that I might have one or two more experienced folk in the crowd.

You can tell right off that these are not experienced Scouters. I ask them what the Scout motto is. The answer of course is “Be Prepared”. Well then, what is the Scout Leader motto? “Be Prepared, To Eat, At all Times”. None of them are carrying requisite cup, plate, or utensil. What a bunch of greenhorns. Why in the hell would you go to a cooking class not prepared to chow down? Rookies, sheesh. I saved their pitiful butts by producing bowls and forks.

Double the number of attendees show up, which totally wrecks my handout math, but thankfully I have enough food probably for the crowd. I start my spiel, and before I get the first point made, a gentlemen pipes up from the peanut gallery, “Well, I do it this way………..”. Hmmmmm, I thought I covered that in the opening prologue with the “not everybody does it the same way, many different ways work, and like all of you cook differently at home, you will develop you own style outdoors. My way is only one way”  Ok, I acknowledge that his input will work.

You friends of mine already know that I am an egotist, and have no lack of self-confidence. Perhaps even a braggart at times. Redneck expression is: It ain’t braggin if you can back it. Some of you know I can cook a mean meal outdoors. Wicked mean.

We move on, and before we get the second point made, my helper has chimed in again. This time he is explaining why the technique I just taught won’t work. Now, in my younger less diplomatic days, I would have replied that perhaps it would be better if he taught and I critiqued, but since it was a Scouting event, I just acknowledged his contribution again.

We launch into something easy like whop biscuits (canned biscuits for you non Southerners, you whop the can on the counter to open them). Cause if you learn how to cook biscuits outdoors and have the top and bottom evenly brown, then you will be the friend of every adult in camp. They will kneel and worship the hand that fed them hot uncharred biscuits.

Wouldn’t you know, my helper chimes in AGAIN. My brain thinks Dude, WTF. But, I just smile, and walk the class through the basics. It helps that just as I finish the biscuit manifesto, I lift the lid on two ovens to reveal and distribute PERFECT bix.

The sous chef is still pointing out other alternatives for cooking of the biscuits, but the crowd ignores him and is asking engaged questions. Well, as well as you can ask with your mouth full of hot bread.

Soon as that is finished, I walk them through an easy prep entre. Forty garlic tenderloin. Simple recipe. Braise tenderloin, add about twenty whole, not smashed garlic cloves, one can of chicken broth, fresh Rosemary and cook for 45. That raises some eyebrows about the garlic, but that concern is put to rest as soon as the lid is lifted on the entre. Can you imagine for a sec what heavenly aroma that was, around 11:30 on a Sat morning under a blue bird November sky. Mercy.

Sharp knife, that wasn’t really needed, produces morsels to pass around. Much ooing and aahing amongst the converts. No comments from the self-appointed assistant.

We move on to the last demo dish. Now, I have had multiple marriage proposals from campers female and male alike over this item. It’s a simple Lemon Poppy Seed affair, cooked not as a muffin, but more as a large cake in the Dutch Oven. Meant to be scooped out by fork , or don’t tell, grubby camp hands.  I was lucky and it turned out perfectly done, top, bottom,  and middle. The women swooned, and the boys with the bellies eyed one another with caution whilst balancing manners with lemon lust.

Afore mentioned helper is silent, trying not to spill crumbs.

Take that amigo. Got any more suggestions. Don’t bring a stick to a gunfight, cowboy. Hard to argue with the evidence.

What are they thinking

News this a.m. was of the local High School football teams that were going to get to play their playoff games in the NEW Cowboy stadium in Arlington, the newest wonder of the world if you belive the hype. Players, parents, and coaches were all exuberant about the venue. One minor detail, each school must pony up 15k per game. That’s 30K of my tax money that won’t be going for books or teachers. Wait, aren’t these the same administrators who complain on the very same morning news that they don’t have enough money to fund teachers for the same schools in the playoffs.

 

Cowboys Stadium, my ass.