Sweet Home, Chicago

Please refer to me for the next four days as "The Man Who Ate Chicago". Thank you.

Bucket of steamahs

I had visions of great meals on a recent business trip to Boston. But I ended up with shitty crew meals on my film shoot, a not bad but in retrospect, average steak frites at Bistro Jo, way too expensive and not terribly well done modern Japanese at Uni in the Eliot Hotel, and a shrimp pasta dish at Legal Seafoods that featured a bed of pasta so poorly cooked that I ate only the shrimp and the lonely cherry tomatoes.

But I have this Proustian memory of the steamed clams with drawn butter that I had at the Amaro household some 40 years ago. The daughter of Portuguese-descendants, my friend the lovely Stephanie Amaro had married a jerk that I worked for. Circumstance dictated that we had dinner one evening at her parent's rambling house in Ipswich near the beach. The succulent, dug-from-the-sand-that-day Ipswich clams, steamed and served with melted butter have stuck with me lo these many years.

So I ordered them at Legal Seafood. And they were pretty good. Sitting at a small table, looking out at the indoor mall, the Hello Kitty cart, and the passing throngs of Japanese tourists and fat, fanny-packed pre-Red Sox game Bostonians wasn't quite the same as sitting around the Amaro's long, noisy, family dining-room table in Ipswich. But the clams, fatter than the delicate Ipswich clams I remember, were good--tasting of the sea with that faint sandy grittiness that means it's for real. The drawn butter, spiked with the lemon wedge that it came with, made it all work.

And Hello Kitty notwithstanding, I got a flash of that magic thing that food, like a song on the radio or a scent on the wind, can do. Which is to not only fill your belly but to transport you to another place. And another time.

Steak frites

Brasserie Jo at the Collonade Hotel on Boylston Street in Boston. Al fresco. Steak frites with red wine butter. Red Sox fans walking by. Boston Brahmins in preppy shoes. Skinny jeans guy with a guitar case. Neighborhood couples pushing strollers. One a woman with cerebral palsy. Pushing a stroller. Mooks with Lucky brand tee-shirts and cargo shorts, their girlfriends in nice dresses and impossibly high heels. Couples riding bicycles. Duckboats lined up in front of the Cheesecake Factory across the street. And me with my steak frites.

My friend Maia tells me there's a Jasper White Summer Shack down the street. I've heard of him. He supposedly does great East Coast seafood, raw bar, oysters, and stuff. So if I can ditch my clients and co-workers, I'm going to live there the next two nights. So...you know...stay tuned.

When the rain comes

Uke fest cancelled. The rain came in around 4:00pm and it rained in sheets for some time. Not the usual four minute Colorado late-afternoon summer rain, but your proverbial torrential downpour. Around 4:30 Dave MacIntyre showed up at my door.He reported that the stage was wet (a deal-breaker for me as I'm not getting up on a wet stage and holding an electrified instrument in my little hands, thank you very much) and the town was reluctant to let its PA system be set up in the rain. Nancy showed up and we spent a half an hour calling musicians and spreading the word. Oddly, everyone is available for the scheduled rain date, September 2nd.

Lyons uke fest update: Moved it to September 2nd and a good time was had by all. Got dark too fast and the Lyons Hawaiians, god bless their pointy little heads, jumped into the crowd and played their hapa swing acoustically. By all accounts and reports people liked it. I think next year just one or two groups. End of that story.

Of course, the rain stopped shortly thereafter and while the skies looked threatening, it didn't rain another drop all evening.

Lyons uke fest

This evening is the first Lyons Uke Festival. My band, Gadzukes!, together with Chris McGarry, Nine Dollar Shawl, and Rue with David Ritchey will attempt to wow the crowd with ukulele pyrotechnics. Hundreds of thousands of people are expected, so come early, bring a chair and prepare to be astonished. At the Sandstone Park stage, 6pm to 8:30. And best of all...free.

A hamburger today

A pre-rehearsal cheeseburger with my friend and First Wednesday band-mate John Goggin as Oskar Blues in Lyons. Not much to say hamburger-wise, except that I'm always proud of myself when i forego the french fries and get a side of coleslaw, which of course is only marginally healthier. but it feels healthier. And more fiber-ey. But my rumination today is on the art of rehearsal.

It's my contention that there is no such thing as a bad rehearsal. Even if many of the players retain only 5% of what we learn, we're 5% farther along than we were before we started. My First Wednesday band is definitely making progress. We learn songs more quickly. We hardly ever argue about arrangements, chord changes, etc. We freely pass on advice, tips, etc. to the other players. (My only concern is that I'm too bossy, but i guess i figure that someone has to step up be bossy and it might just as well be me, since I lead the band on-stage anyway.)

Last night we learned two of Dave's songs ("Up On Cripple Creek" and "Down To Seeds & Stems Again,") one of Josh's (Robert Cray's Phone Booth) and went over some of the ones we had issues with. All in all, it was satisfying. More satisfying than the cheeseburger with cole slaw.

Tastes like chicken

Because it was chicken. Grilled bone-in breast with garlic rub, corn on the cob, new potatoes. Zzzzzz. I told you I was going to record what I ate.

Regarding the image to left, I once got a birthday card with this cowboy and rooster on the front. Inside it read, "This man has a big cock."

Le fish

We caught a bunch. That's Peter on the right. He likes those grey sleeveless t-shirts. Me, I'm a white t-shirt kind of a guy. That's me on the left.

Small world

It's got me thinking. Not that's it's any big news or anything, but these days the world is pretty freaking small. It's those darn Internets.

My lovely daughter Zoe, of whom I think the world, has a blog. It's very fun, very much about vintage fashion (but lots of other stuff, too). She's part of a community of mostly women who blog and post images of their vintage fashion finds and how they wear them. In a matter of weeks (well, a month or so by now,) her blog has gone from a handful of people (me, my girl Hollie, Zoe's man Ryan, and some others,) to hundreds of followers.

And Zoe mentioned my blog on her blog, and now people have visited my blog from her blog. Like this lovely girl SecondSkin, who left some great comments about what I'm doing and how she's trying to get her dad to blog. Next thing you know, he'll be blogging, and we'll all be reading and digging what he has to say.

My conclusion? I don't have one, except that this makes me happy. Happy that I'm writing. Happy that Zoe is writing. And Hollie is inspired to start back up. And that SecondSkin is writing, and working on her dad to write. Why? Because I guess I believe that writing is a good thing. And it's a good thing to share what we do with other people.

I grew up in an era where we wrote things on paper and put a stamp on them. And I'm only somewhat nostalgic for that whole business. I like these Internets.

Fishing in the rain

Not making dinner at home tonight. Off to fish the north fork of the St. Vrain River for the first time this year with my friend, Peter. And then we will likely grab a bit of dinner out afterward.

It's only the second time I've been fishing this season. Peter and I fished the Big Thompson River just below the dam, east of Rocky Mountain National Park, in later June, but the spring run-off was still in full force, and that, combined with wily fish that have seen it all, we ended up skunked.

The St. Vrain, here in town, was good to us last year. One magical evening this past summer we fished until it was so dark we couldn't see our hands in front of our faces. It was literally a "fish-every-cast" evening. That spot has since been fenced and posted. But Peter rents a house from one of the fellows who owns that stretch of property along the river and we are alleged to have fishing rights. "Well see," said the blind man.

Update: and now it's raining, so worst case...dinner.

Royale with cheese

I had a rehearsal in Denver last night so i ate on the run. A #1 combo from Burger King. Why, I can't really tell you. I know this food sucks. That's it's the kind of corporate fast-food garbage that is killing people. And is everything I hate about the global food industry.

But I'm in late. I'm hungry. It's cheap. And, inexplicably, the shit tastes good.

But the rush of the salty fries, the mayonnaise-ey hamburger, the tingle in the back of the throat from the sugary soda does not outweigh the waves of guilt that wash through my brain. And the extra layer of fat that gets added my already disgusting waistline.

Picnic

Hollie and I had a wonderful picnic Saturday evening on the University of Colorado campus before seeing Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure". I had nothing to do with it. Hollie made delicious pineapple-lavender coolers, pimento cheese spread finger sandwiches, and panko-fried chicken. All Hollie. Idea. Tickets. Picnic. That's my girl.

The play was interesting. A sort of tragic-comedy with the Duke assuming the disguise of a friar, a bed trick where females are swapped in the dark, and retribution for the bad guy.

Funny that on the way out, as we were leaving the balcony, I looked down to see our fellow food group members, and my co-worker, Jason Kusmanoff, with his wife Ashley, leaving on the main floor. And carrying a cooler. Turned out they had gone to the same play and had a picnic beforehand.

Hollie made baked eggs Sunday morning using black tomatoes from her garden. Delicious and relaxing. Reading the Sunday NY Times on her deck.

Honey-glazed Asian pork tenderloin

This turned out quite good. I'm a savory kind of guy when it comes to my entrees, and typically don't like sweet except for dessert. But on Friday, Hollie and I demolished a one pound pork tenderloin cooked with a honey-five spice-rice vinegar and hoisin sauce marinade.

An interesting technique, the recipe called for cooking the tenderloin for 20 minutes in a 400 degree oven on a wire rack over a roasting pan with an inch of water, and then basting it while it cooked on a stove top grill pan for another 20 minutes.

I grilled some vegetables as a side and made a roasted garlic dressing for the salad We ate al fresco, even though it's too damn hot to be outside. But it was nice. Orange supremes, fresh strawberries and mint with agave and a squeeze of lime for dessert.

Apparently...

Apparently, I suck as bad at playing golf as I do making sushi.

Actually, I may play golf slightly better. I played yesterday at Sunset in Longmont with Peter Maves and Jon Snyder. I flailed early on, but at one point did par two holes in a row and bogeyed most of the rest. So I guess that is, in fact, better than my sushi rolls.

In keeping with my attempt to record what I ate, I had corned beef and cabbage at the Irish pub, O'Shay's in downtown Longmont.

And tonight Hollie and I are eating at a new Chinese place in Boulder, Zoe Ma MA (?).

Time flies when you're having a good time.

Jeez. I just looked and saw that my last post on this blog was in the winter of 2006. Since then, the top ten, in some sort of order:




1. My daughter moved back.
2. I found Hollie.
3. I released a sort of critically-acclaimed CD
4. My company moved to Denver.
5. I've almost paid off my house.
6. I've been to Nicaragua three times.
7. My daughter became a style icon.
8. I'm four years closer to retiring.
9. We elected a Democrat. A black one, at that.
10. I bought three ukuleles, one amp, and one guitar.

Sushi fail.

An attempt at sushi rolls ended up like most of my attempts at sushi rolls. Lame.

Possibly I didn't let the rice cool long enough. Possibly the rice sucked in the first place and cool or not, would result in failure. The rice was too glutinous, too sweet, and thick. This produces a fatter, not particularly appetizing roll. Maybe I need a class. For sure I need a bottle of rice seasoning.

It was edible (with overdose of soy sauce and fake wasabi,) but only barely. Sigh.

Louie Blue-ey

Truly one of the greatest musicians who ever lived. This, my friends, is Louie Armstrong's kitchen.

Why I'm starting to write about food again

Today, in the New York Times there was an article about a woman who started a diary in 1998 about what she ate for dinner every day. I'm looking for a book topic and I'm stumped, so I'm going to borrow her idea and start writing about what i make for dinner and hopefully, about food in general again. Maybe something will come to me.

(I've bailed on my stagiaire.org website and i'm going back to my first blog (bad_guitar) as a kind of fresh start.)

I bought my umpteen-thousandth cookbook the other day--yet another Asian cookbook--and it told me (they do talk to me. In fact there's a book...What the Cookbook Told Me To Make,) to make sushi. (By the way, a book about cookbooks is also high on my list. I certainly have enough of them to be at least more of an expert than most people.)

I had thrown out my sushi rice during an infestation of pantry moths a year or so ago, so I drove to Boulder for a bag at the Asian market. Some young kid was behind the counter instead of the Wicked Witch of the East who usually is there. A sour, middle-aged Asian woman, she's not had a nice word for me in 15 years of shopping there. So a good omen for my sushi, which I need, since I've never been all that good at it.

So tonight, I'll try to make sushi and hopefully start posting more consistently about what i cook--and why.

oh. the snow.

and the most amazing thing was...all the snowflakes were different.

walnut tree - fall - night