Happy New Year, Happy Old Year.

Posted on January 2, 2012 by Michael Procopio

My first act of the New Year– make that my third act of the New Year after flushing the Old Year down the toilet and washing my hands with soap and hot water–  was to bake a loaf of bread. It’s not an unusual morning activity if one is a bread baker, but I am not a bread baker. I am a bread buyer.

It wasn’t very good bread. In fact, it was rather the opposite: under-proofed, under-flavored, and a trifle under-baked. Frankly, I couldn’t give a flying fuc squirrel whether it was the most delicious sandwich loaf ever to hit my cutting board or if it was better suited as a flooring tile. What’s important is that I woke up wanting to bake bread. By myself. In my boxer shorts.

It just happened. And the fact that I don’t give a Flying fuc Dutchman if it was a lousy loaf makes me even happier. Just read my last post if you don’t believe me. It’s right there below this one, which is where last posts typically belong.

Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s that toasting fixes everything.

My last social interaction of the Old Year was a surprise visit by my oldest friends, The Rosas. They had been mushroom foraging up north and asked if they could swing by my place on their drive home to share their bounty with me. My kitchen and living room were a mess, but I didn’t give a flying fuc saucer (actually, I did, but it was merely the size of a demitasse). I was shown Black Trumpets, Pig’s Ears, Chanterelles. They left me with some of the last and wished me a Happy New Year.

It was an appropriate end cap to a year filled with kind people doing generous things. And I do mean filled.

I’m not going to dive in too deep looking for meaning. I don’t have to. I have so many delightful people in my life. I woke up on the first day of the New Year feeling un-characteritically self-reliant. I decided that my first meal of the year should be made from last year’s mushrooms and this year’s bread. None of it should be wasted, no matter how crappy the bread turned out.

And that’s basically it. Not so much in a nutshell, but served up on toast.

Happy New Year to all of you. Thanks for reading and for all of those smart, thoughtful, clever comments in 2011, which have sustained me like you-wouldn’t-believe. Now that I do give a flying fuc carpet about.

 

Posted in Holidays, Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , , | 26 Comments

Practically Imperfect in Every Way.

Posted on December 22, 2011 by Michael Procopio

I’ve had a difficult relationship with “perfect” ever since I witnessed a measuring tape belonging to Mary Poppins refer to her as practically so in every way. We have the same initials, Mary and I, so the self-imposed pressure to emulate her was intense.

The vanity, pompousness, and willingness to abandon young children at the next good gust of wind were easy achieved. The subtleties of becoming airborne with an umbrella, sliding up bannisters, and drinking tea on the ceiling, however, were not. Knowing that I am unable to elevate myself by means of magic has been an endless source of frustration.

So when I hear people toss off phrases like “the perfect dessert for the Holidays” or “the perfect cocktail for Summer” I cringe and think to myself, “Oh, God. There’s that word again.”

Perfect.

I’m not sure I know what it means. Or what it looks like. And if I were a smart person, I would have given up on the word a long time ago. But I’m not and I didn’t.

Several months ago, I was asked to write a story for another website. One that belongs to someone I admire and adore and who has done so much for me. Someone who believes in my ability to tell a story. I wanted it to be the best thing I’ve ever written. I wanted it to be– you guessed it– perfect.

And, of course, it wasn’t and it still isn’t.

I’d examine the re-write notes, rip the whole thing apart and try to piece it back together. I sat with it every day, finding a phrase to polish here, a paragraph to tighten there. But it wouldn’t gel. There were days when all I could do was stare at it, cry in frustration, and walk away from it before I threw my laptop across the room.

I imagined my friend to be profoundly disappointed in me. I imagined his editor wringing her hands over my non-progress. But he isn’t and she doesn’t. In fact, she’s been tremendously kind and patient.

All the bad things are the product of my own, fertile imagination.

And this frustration and non-progress has infected every other part of my life for the past several months. I’ve pulled back from the world. I’ve lost endless nights of sleep. And when I sleep, I dream that I can’t move.  I fell into a wide, dark, depressive hole.

Photo of the author.

It’s been driving me batty. Or, to put it into proper food terms, nuts.

I’ve been good about seeing friends, who always put me back into a happy mood, but when I return home and come face to face with my computer screen, I sink back down again. I have a long list of stories to tell and recipes to make, but nothing’s been coming out. It’s one thing to be brimming with ideas, it’s another to be able to string them together into coherent paragraphs.

There are bigger problems in the world than writer’s block. I am in good health. I have excellent friends and a supportive family. But there are few things more terrifying to a writer than the sensation that he or she cannot write.

In my case, it all stemmed from wanting to write one, simple, perfect little story that would make someone proud of me and compounded by all the marvelous hype I’ve received over the past several months that have made me afraid to write anything less than wonderful.

And it’s all in my own, complicated little head.

It’s a fire-breathing dragon of my own creation. No, strike that. It’s more like a dragon that sneezes a cold, paralyzing mist. And the only way to slay it is to warm up enough to step out of its way and slit its throat.

The best way I can think of to warm up again  is to give up on this idea of perfect because it’s never done me or anyone I know the least bit of good. And, of course,  to keep writing (or painting or composing or skiing or whatever it is you love and want to be good at doing). More importantly, to keep writing and not be afraid to write something that isn’t great (like this post, for example). It’s important for me to remember that one must sharpen one’s skills sufficiently if one hopes to do any productive throat-slitting.

Because it clearly isn’t done through Mary Poppins magic.

So I’m letting go of perfect, not that I’ve ever attained it in the first place. I’m not even certain what it looks like. “The perfect dessert for the Holidays”? Something deemed perfect by one person is always going to be found imperfect by another. I have the feeling that perfection is merely the product of the imagination. And, perhaps, excellent marketing.

Is there anything in this world that is absolutely, objectively perfect? If there is, I would like to see it. And perhaps kick a little dent in it.

The only thing I can come up with is the Perfect Manhattan. What makes it “perfect”, however is isn’t so much that it has reached a sublime state, but rather, a vermouth-related compromise.

Now that’s the kind of perfect I’m comfortable with.

Happy Holidays from me and my dragon. Miss Poppins, however sends you no such greeting. She’s never been good with sentiment.

Poached Pears with Pistachio and Ricotta

Practically perfect. Maybe not for you, but for me.

Fruity, nutty, poached in wine, a little cheesy, and none-too-sweet. If there existed a dessert that suited me, this would be the one. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it’s the “perfect dish for the Holidays”, but it’s practically perfect, as far as I’m concerned.

Granted, there are three different components, but I like that about this recipe. It’s a pleasant exercise in “pulling it together”, you might say. And, fortunately, all of them are easy, elastic, and extremely forgiving, which is precisely the sort of thing I need to make these days.

Ingredients:

For the pears:

4 Bosc pears: firm and not at all what one might think of as perfectly ripe.
3 cups water
3 cups (essentially, it’s one 750ml bottle minus three or four good swigs for the cook) of decent white wine. I used an Oregon Riesling.
1 cup of sugar
1/4 cup honey
1 cinnamon stick
1 star anise
4 or 5 cloves

For the pistachio paste:

1 pound pistachios, shelled
1/4 cup simple syrup
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
A heavy pinch of salt

For the ricotta:

1 pound ricotta
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon honey
1 tablespoon of sugar
The zest of 1 orange
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preparation:

1. In a large, deep pan (I’ve used an 11-incher), add all the ingredients listed under “For the pears”. Except the pears. Bring to a simmer and stir well enough to ensure that the honey and sugar have melted into the water and wine.

Gasping for air.

2. Wash, peel, halve, and core your pears. Slip them gently into the simmering liquid. Cut a round of parchment paper to fit neatly and loosely over your now-simmering pears. Cut a hole in the center to allow the inevitable steam to escape*. The letting off of steam is nearly as important in certain cooking methods as it is in certain life situations, or so people tell me. In fact, I hear that there are actually people in this world who cook to let off steam. As crazy as that sounds, every word of it, I think,  is true.

Let the poor, gasping pears poach for about 15 to 20 minutes. The goal is tender, liquid-permeated fruit, not stewed to the point of easy gummability.

3. Transfer pears, cinnamon stick, cloves, and star anise to a clean bowl and reserve. Reduce the  poaching liquid until there is a little more than one cup remaining, which should present itself to you as a lovely but light syrup. And when I say “lovely but light syrup”, I mean that it is both subtly flaxen in color and only mildly viscous. Pour over the awaiting pears, cover, and set aside until ready to use.

These pears will be just fine refrigerated for the next five or so days. In fact, they get more delicious the longer they stay in the syrup. Until they start to rot. But the window of eating opportunity is a wide one. 

4. Drop your nuts and salt in a food processor and give them a few quick pulses. Drizzle in your simple syrup and pulse a bit more. You should be able to gather up the nut mixture and, with little effort, be able to shape it into loose balls. It should look essentially like the guts of a piece of baklava, except green.

This precious little nut job is best consumed the day you make it, for texture’s sake. Its decline and fall from goodness is rapid. You have been warned. 

5. In a clean bowl, combine ricotta, sugar, honey , orange zest, and vanilla. Stir well, taste for desired sweetness, adjust accordingly, cover, and set aside in the refrigerator until read to use.

The ricotta mixture is at its peak after it’s been mixed up for a few hours. Left for two days in the refrigerator, you might notice that it’s been weeping uncontrollably. The best remedy is beat the hell out of it until there are no more tears, then act as if there has been no crying and no beating, and continue. 

6. To serve, place a heavy dollop of ricotta in the center of a much-loved but slightly flawed plate or bowl. Allow one half of a poached pear to casually rest upon the ricotta as if it were some sort of dairy body pillow. Do not, however, let it rest upon its side. Form a loose ball of pistachio paste and place it in the pear’s hollowed out core like so much nutty belly button lint. Lightly drizzle your recumbent nude with syrup, get out of your own way, and actually try to enjoy something you’ve created for once in your life without tearing it to shreds. Metaphorically speaking, of course. You’re going to have to tear the pear to shreds if you’re planning on eating it.

* This trick I learned from a man by the name of David Lebovitz. It’s alarming how many tricks I’ve learned from that man– most of which I would not be embarrassed to perform in front of my mother.

Posted in Holidays, Rants and Stories, Sweets and the Like | Tagged , , , , , , , | 45 Comments

Giving Proper Thanks

Posted on November 23, 2011 by Michael Procopio

I’m not much of a holiday person. While the essence of Christmas is a lovely thought, I can’t bear suffering through six to eight weeks of blinking lights and enforced good cheer.

New Year’s Eve is nearly always disappointing, filled as it is with amateur drunks fighting each other for taxis and with well-meant promises that are rarely kept.

The Fourth of July leaves me cold, too. When everyone else is oohing and ahhing over aerial explosions, I find myself sneaking back indoors to read a magazine in relative peace.

Thanksgiving, however, is an altogether different animal. It’s the one day a year I allow myself to get emotional and caught up in holiday spirit.  I don’t even mind so much that my favorite holiday of the year is represented by a beast so fattened, inbred, and stupid that it hasn’t the good sense or agility to keep itself from drowning in the rain.

But turkey isn’t what’s important about Thanksgiving.  I could care less about it or Pilgrims or pumpkin pie. I don’t worry about nice china or getting out the “good” stemware or fussing over a tablescape.

Instead, I do what millions of other people do on Thanksgiving– I give thanks. I take stock of the year that has passed and dwell on the all the good things that life has given me rather than fret over the not-so-good, which is my typical habit. For me, Thanksgiving is the emotional equivalent of an engine tune-up., which always reminds me that one of the chiefest things I am grateful for as a San Franciscan is that I no longer suffer the headache of car ownership.

I have so much to be thankful for. I am thankful for being in possession of fine motor skills which allow me to type these words onto my keyboard. I am thankful for the ability to chew and swallow food. I am thankful that I can use the toilet unaided. I am thankful for my voice and the muscles in my throat which let me use it. I am thankful for all the little things I usually take for granted. And all of the big things I feel I take for granted, too.

I am grateful to the people who gave me life and thankful for the people in it who give that life meaning.

My head is spinning at the thought of all the kindnesses shown to me in the past year. The generosity of my food writing colleagues, some of which goes deeper than I can ever tell. The love and support of my family. The super-human patience of my friends. There are so many people in my life who are givers. It makes me wonder if I have been giving enough to them.

I always feel as if I’m the taker.

I have one friend in particular who seems to do all of the giving in our relationship. It’s just how she is– she’s an emotional caregiver. Last week she took on the burden of physical caregiving  as well when her partner suffered a massive stroke at the age of forty-five. He has made daily progress in his recovery, for which I am thankful, but my concern was for her. She’s always taking care of everybody else. But who the hell is taking care of her?

My first thought was “I’ll bet she’s not eating. She needs to eat something. I know she’s not sleeping.” I felt frustrated by the fact that I wasn’t doing anything for this woman who has done so much for me. I don’t have a car in which to shuttle her to and from the hospital. I don’t have much in the way of money to help meet hospital expenses. I don’t have a magic wand I can wave to fix everything.

But I do know how to cook.

It’s taken me a long time to understand that a phone call or a card or even an email is pleasant, but not especially helpful. A Facebook wall post saying “Sending hugs your way.” is not altogether meaningless, but it is done at a safe distance. It isn’t getting your hands dirty. And I think that’s what people need when they need support– they need the people around them to roll up their sleeves and help without being asked. I’ve lost so many opportunities to show people how much I care about them by worrying too much that I might be intruding or getting in the way.

I simply don’t want to be that person who says “Let me know if you need anything” anymore. I’m old enough to understand now that the person who needs something is either too exhausted or distracted or too polite to tell you what they actually need. If you care about someone, do the thinking for them.

If they have a lawn, mow it. Pick up their dry cleaning. Take their kids to school. Whisk them off to dinner. Pour them a drink.

Or cook something. Make it simple. Make it easy to eat and to store. Prepare a dish that you love or that you know they love, but make it something they won’t have to concentrate on too much. Make it nourishing.  Send it to them in a container they won’t have to worry about returning any time soon.

And don’t ask them how they enjoyed it because this isn’t about feeding your own ego, it’s about feeding someone you care for. It’s doing a little something for someone who has done so much for you. It’s a simple matter of being grateful that they are in your life.

It’s about giving proper thanks. And not just on Thanksgiving.

And to my friend who has always been such a wonderful soul: I promise not to ask you if you liked the pastitsio* if you’ll promise to get some rest.

Much love,

Michael

______________________________________________________

* There is no recipe posted as yet because, even though the recipe is adapted from my chef’s cookbook and I’m certain he wouldn’t care if I posted it, I need to ask formal permission from the publishers before posting. This clearly isn’t going to happen before the holiday now, is it?

Posted in Holidays, Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , , , | 31 Comments

Rosemary’s Baby Food

Posted on October 27, 2011 by Michael Procopio

The great 20th century poet/philosopher Pat Benatar once remarked that “hell is for children.” Jean-Paul Sartre, a lesser-known thinker from the same century, wrote that “hell is other people.”

I would like to take these ideas to the next, logical step by saying that I firmly believe that hell is other peoples’ children. If you’ve ever sat through endless hours of proud, new parents cooing over the latest achievements of their newborns or tried to sleep on a transatlantic flight in economy class with an infant screeching behind your center seat, you know precisely what I mean.

Babies are a global menace. They create bio-hazards, noise pollution, their conception is the primary cause of the Earth’s overpopulation,  and they don’t do much in the way of tricks when they are newly born. They gobble up valuable space and precious resources with their carriers, strollers, and bags of toys. And they grow into adults who disappoint their parents.

They are the purest form of evil. Unfortunately, their cute packaging makes them difficult to eradicate.

I know what you’re thinking. Your baby couldn’t be evil. In fact, he or she might grow up to be an astronaut or even the President of the United States.

And what of it? If your child does become an astronaut, with the exception of the occasional appearance at a high school science fair, he or she will be jobless and sponge off of you for the rest of your days. President? I shudder to think what type of soulless child you plan to raise who would actually want that kind of employment.

Pure evil, I say.

The name-- it's an anagram

Why look to the skies when planning for your child’s future? I suggest you aim lower. Much, much lower. Not in terms of aspirations, mind you. I just happen to think your baby would have much better job security if he were the Son of Satan.

Why dream of your child becoming the leader of the Free World when he can one day enslave the entire planet?

I know you believe your child is special. You were programmed that way. However,  I should warn you that, though the Earth is littered with evil babies, there’s only room for one Heir to The Underworld. To know if your child might be the one, true Anti-God, I have compiled a handy checklist (for mother’s only):

Signs your baby might be the Prince of Hell:

1. Near the time of your child’s conception, did you:
a) Eat a suspicious dessert?
b) Black out?
c) Wake up with unexplained scratches on your back?

2. During pregnancy, were you:
a) Losing weight?
b) Experiencing cramping?
c) Cajoled into ingesting vitamin drinks by an overbearing old woman?
d) Suddenly overcome by the need to visit Vidal Sassoon?
e) Completely paranoid?

3. After the birth of your child, did you find yourself wanting to:
a)  Hide your pills?
b) Re-organize the linen closet?
c) Become a knife-wielding party crasher?

If after reading the following list, you discover that your child is only lower-case “e” evil, take heart– he or she can still grow up to be President.

On the other hand, if you answered “yes” to any one of these questions, your child is more than likely the future Prince of Darkness.

Congratulations!

And Happy, Happy Halloween.

Rosemary’s Baby Food

Infants of Satan are much like ordinary babies, but with extra-special dietary needs. Iron, flesh, and fungus are important to their developmental health, but aren’t found in sufficient amounts in regular baby food. This easy, delicious recipe is tailored to those needs and will help your baby to grow strong and eventually enslave the world.

Try it on your own Hell Spawn today*.

Makes about 4 servings.

Ingredients:

1 cup fresh, organic English peas
1/4 cup apple juice
4 oz. Silken tofu (for texture)
2 oz. ram’s blood
1 tablespoon puréed goat’s penis
1/4 ground Tannis root. Algerian or Syrian. Algerian may be more expensive, but has less of an undertaste that some find objectionable.

Preparation:

1. In a medium-sized pentagram, place your blender. After offering up both your child and your soul to Satan, add all ingredients and purée until smooth. If the mixture is too thin, add a little more tofu and blend again.

2. Transfer baby food to a sterile container: glass, white porcelain, or human skull. Do NOT store in aluminum or use foil to cover.

3. Though the purée will last refrigerated for three days, it’s best to serve immediately. You really don’t want to keep a baby like that waiting.

*Not recommended for children who have been baptized.

 

Posted in Holidays, Stage, Film, and Television | Tagged , , , , | 22 Comments

Not Dead, But Resting

Posted on October 5, 2011 by Michael Procopio

Dear kind readers and gentlepeople,

This is just a little note let you know that Food for The Thoughtless is not dead, but merely taking a much-needed rest.

The author (pictured above) needed lots of sleep during the month of September. One could say that the month fairly flew by as if in a dream, which makes sense given the fact that he was doing his best to have as many of them as possible.

And now, sickened by his overuse of the third person, he will switch back to the much more human first, which suits him just fine, since he is now, in fact, feeling human again.

It was a wonderful month of ups and downs, but mostly ups.

Thanks to marvelous people like David Leite and Antonia Allegra, I was encouraged to haul my carcass to the Allegheny Mountains for a little jamboree known as the Greenbrier Symposium for Professional Food Writers, where I ate s’mores and learned to feel as if I were, in fact, a professional food writer.

I was entirely too busy cramming my brain with information to remember to take photos, which is a pity, but there were others who did like Heidi Swanson, who also brought snacks.

There were so many fascinating people there I was nearly as overwhelmed by them as I was by the Dorothy Draper interiors.

And, to finish off the month, this little thing happened…

…which isn’t little a thing at all, except perhaps in terms of physical size.

Several years ago, when I was taking my first, hesitant steps towards writing, my friend Robin gave me two of these anthologies for my birthday and said, “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be in one someday.”

And now I can proudly say I am. You can read my story on my blog, but there are 49 other people’s worth of  excellent stories to be found inside its covers. Buy a copy and see for yourself.

A lot of really wonderful things have come into my life as a result of this blog— the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve eaten. I’d be a fool to let it end, which is why I will return next week with a spot of dirty fun. I promise.

Thanks so much for reading and all the marvelous encouragement. And I mean that most sincerely.

Cheers,

Michael

Posted in Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , | 36 Comments

In Case You Missed It…

Posted on August 25, 2011 by Michael Procopio

At its finest, Twitter is a social medium in which communities are strengthened, news is shared, and witty banter is exchanged between friends and followers. At its worst, it is a universe of tedium, shameless self-promotion, and abject neediness.

Though we all think everything we say is utterly fascinating (myself included), do we really need to know that you just ate a bagel?

No, we don’t. Unless that bagel was served to you by a naked celebrity on horseback. And you supply photographic evidence.

In an attempt to be as I would like others to be ( in Twitter-specific terms) and to help make the online world a more pleasant place to visit, I’ve compiled a short, non-comprehensive list of dos and don’ts for Twitter usage*. Why? Because it allows me to complain and be helpful at the same time– two of my favorite activities. If you have any more ideas, please feel free to add your two cents. I’m still learning.

1. We don’t need to know where you are at all times. More than likely, your mother is not on Twitter, so why don’t you just leave the Foursquare check-ins on Foursquare where they belong?

2. Your life is not as fascinating to others as it might be to you. Unless you nearly choked to death on a severed finger you found hiding in your egg salad or Godzilla personally toasted your hamburger bun, we don’t need to know what you had for lunch. Don’t bore your followers by tweeting every blessed thing you do.

You just ate the most amazing flaxseed muffin ever? Yay for you! I can’t wait for the inevitable tweet about your next bowel movement.

3. Don’t overshare. Delicate matters such as venereal disease, marriage problems, interfamily issues, and the consistency of one’s stool are just a few examples of things that are best not discussed on Twitter. Unless, of course,  you are Direct Messaging your doctor or marriage counselor.

4. Play nice. Don’t criticize a friend or follower publicly**. If there is a problem, the kindest thing is to send the perceived offender a private, direct message. If, however, the Tweeter is openly seeking to damage another person by making unwarranted personal attacks or spewing racist, sexist, homophobic or any other sort of hateful venom, then go in with guns blazing. I might even join you.

5. Put your links into context. Have something you want to share? Excellent. However, merely tweeting “This is awesome!” in front of your link is entirely too vague and your followers will feel their times has been wasted if, for example, your link is to the new silicone garlic peeler you’ve just purchased from Amazon.com. Instead, attach a new header such as “I just got a new torture device for people with swollen finger syndrome!”

6. Follow Fridays. For the uninitiated, Friday is the day unofficially reserved for the pimping of one’s favorite tweeters and is indicated by the sign #ff, an abbreviation which in some fetish circles has a very specific and fairly disturbing meaning.

While it is a compliment to be included in someone’s #ff, the ensuing thanks are often irritating, however well meaning. Instead of cluttering up everyone’s feed with re-tweets like the one above, do your followers a favor– thank the sender personally. By direct message, if possible. This way, the rest of the world doesn’t have to read about the same thing ten times. Thank you, Ben, for the suggestion.

And, if you are going to send a Follow Friday shout out, please put it into– I’ll say it again– context. Here is an example:

The above is a very, very short list of people I enjoy following. Why do I enjoy following them? Because they are, all of them a) smart, b) funny, c) able make the mundane interesting, and d) possessors of a social conscience. It’s an alphabet soup of qualities to which I aspire, but do not always succeed.

7. Don’t re-tweet yourself. Unless you enjoy public masturbation (in terms of social media or otherwise). If you are clever or influential enough to have been re-tweeted by another person, again, just quietly say “thank you”. Attaching the nice things someone else has said about you and then re-tweeting the already re-tweeted compliment makes you look like a tool. Please see below image:

8. Don’t spell like a 15 year old sending a text. This one came from another wonderful tweeter, Marcia Gagliardi (@tablehopper on Twitter). It is paraphrased, but I could not agree more. U wanna cum acros like a idyit? OMFG! Go for it, but don’t expect anyone to take anything you say seriously.  Spellcheck is there for a reason. Use it. Abbreviations are fine, but if you can’t say what you want to say in 140 characters or less, then maybe you shouldn’t.

I might suggest you study the art of haiku and then come back to Twitter. Or, if you happen to be a famous ex-food critic who rhapsodizes over sun-dappled, runny eggs, I strongly encourage you to abandon your study of the art form and try a different approach entirely.

9. DO NOT REPEATEDLY TWEET ABOUT YOUR BLOG POSTS. I have written this in all capital letters because I cannot shout it loud enough in real life.

The phrase “In case you missed it…” has become the bane of my personal Twitter existence. My friends all know it and taunt me mercilessly about it.

Be smart about when you tweet news of your latest post. And tweet about it once. Twice is even acceptable, if it is done tactfully. Using the above-mentioned phrase gives the impression that the Tweeter: a) thinks his or her followers have nothing better to do than read their new piece about quinoa and garlic scape macarons, b) is sending out a desperate cry for attention, c) is a complete narcissist (see: #7), or d) all of the above.

If your post is really that good, others will tweet about it. If I missed it, my apologies, but I will catch up with your blog when I have a little more free time.

Or, in case you missed it, I just un-followed you.

10. There is no number 10, because I can’t stand Top Ten lists.

*Contrary to public opinion, I do not see myself as the Moses-type, receiving God’s Twitter laws from on high, but I do happen to think these are good commandments to live by. And there are only nine, so they’re much easier to remember than Mosaic law.

** Although I must admit I’m a sucker for a good fight. In fact, I’m reading one right on my Twitter stream as I type this.

Posted in Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , | 60 Comments

Die, Vampire, Die.

Posted on August 16, 2011 by Michael Procopio

There is a moment in the musical “Title of Show” in which its creators, Jeff and Hunter, find themselves stuck in a quagmire of frustration and creative self doubt. Why should they bother putting on a show at all? What the hell were they thinking?

To the rescue comes their friend Susan, who tells them that vampires are eating up their confidence and creativity by way of a song entitled, appropriately enough, “Die Vampire, Die!“

According to her, “a vampire is any person or thought or feeling that stands between you and your creative self expression, but they can assume many seductive forms”:

 

1.) The Pigmy Vampires– “They’ll swarm around your head like gnats and say things like: ‘Your teeth need whitening’, ‘You went to state school?’, ‘You sound weird’, and ‘Shakespeare, Sondheim, (and) Sedaris did it before you and better than you.’”

2.) The Air Freshener Vampire– Who “doesn’t want you to write about bad language, blood or blow jobs… which will leave your work toothless, gutless, and crotchless, but you’ll be left with two tight paragraphs all kittens that your grandma would be so proud of.”

3.) The Vampire of Despair– “The Mother of All Vampires”. “It’ll wake you up at 4am to say things like: ‘Who do you think you’re kidding?’ ‘You look like a fool.’ ‘No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be good enough.’”

“Why is it that if some dude walked up to me on the subway platform and said these things, I’d think he was a mentally ill asshole, but if the vampire inside my head says it, it’s the voice of reason?”

With apologies to the second type of vampire, this last question is one that has seized me by the balls. It was important for me to hear that I’m not the only one who is plagued by them. The fact that the message was conveyed through the magic of musical theatre made it all the more resonant, because that’s how I learn most of my life lessons.

We all have our demons– ghosts that haunt us, ogres who hide under our beds, vampires that swarm around our heads. I know I’ve got them and, if you’re the least bit introspective, I know you’ve got them, too.

Or, if you happen to be one of those people completely untroubled by the monsters of self-doubt, I’d love to know how you’ve managed it, though I probably won’t believe you.

For me, this has been The Summer of Vampire #3. There is no logical explanation for his presence. No traumatic events have occurred in the past months; my life has been calm, stable, and full of small pleasures. I certainly didn’t invite him in intentionally.

But I must have left a window open somewhere.

My particular vampire sits on the edge of my bed in the morning and tells me there’s little point in getting up. He rides the bus with me to work and says, “I hope you love waiting tables, because that’s what you’re going to be doing until your body gives out. After that, you’re totally screwed”. He peeks over my computer screen to say things like, “You have nothing interesting to say, so why even bother? It’s not like you can ever make a career out of writing.”

After a while, I start to believe the things he says. I stay in bed too long. I feel trapped inside my white shirt and black waiter’s apron. I shoot down my own ideas. I avoid writing.

And then, I remember this little song and understand that I am old enough and (hopefully) sane enough to realize that this vampire is full of shit. (Again, sorry, #2). I play this song repeatedly to remind myself of that.

Clearly, this soul-sucking incubus has overstayed his welcome, if there was ever any welcome to have overstayed in the first place. I’d love to drive a wooden stake through his heart, but he lives inside my head, so the operation would more than likely be fatal for both of us. So I have decided to do the next best thing, which is drive him away. As a fallen Catholic, I no longer have any crucifixes hanging about, so I’m opting for garlic.

Lots and lots of garlic.

It’s about fucking time I got rid of the bastard.

Chicken with 42 Cloves of Garlic

There is a traditional Provençal dish that calls for 40 cloves of garlic. I have upped the number by two for extra protection. And I have peeled each clove, so that I have easier access to them, should the need for them arise, which it will.

The beauty of this dish is threefold. One: the raw sharpness of the garlic mellows into sweet softness as it cooks, making it Two: extremely delicious and easily eaten by those of us without fangs. And Three: it’s extremely simple to prepare.

Wait. Make that fourfold, because the soft, sweet garlic is traditionally mashed over toast, which is my favorite part of the entire endeavor.

With each clove of garlic you pull out if its skin, think of something sharp or unpleasant that has stung you over the years. That rejection letter from Martha Stewart Living? Drop it into your work bowl. Not skinny enough for skinny jeans? Toss that in, too. Continue to do so until all your cloves and cares have been peeled and thrown into the pile. Knowing that their power weakens with each moment of cooking makes the process almost as sweet as the garlic will be when you’ve finished.

Now I realize that the typical vampire is traditionally repelled by raw garlic, but never have I read anything indicating his tolerance for it cooked. So I’m taking my chances. If, for some reason, the vampire comes back to roost, I will immediately plunge myself into a large vat of skordalia for safe measure.

Serves 2 to 4 Vampire Offenders

Ingredients:

• 2/3 cups olive oil
• 4 whole chicken legs– thighs and drumsticks attached (Many recipes call for whole chickens to be used, but I prefer to use dark meet exclusively because it has more flavor than white meat and it’s less expensive. Besides, breast meat tends to dry out faster than a 50 year-old wet nurse…)
• 42 cloves of garlic, peeled and emotionally processed
• 3/4 cups chicken stock
• 1/2 cup dry white wine (or vermouth)
• 6 to 8 branches of fresh thyme, about which I refuse to allude to philosophically in this post
• About 1 tablespoon of fresh lemon zest
• About 1 tablespoon of butter, salted or unsalted– it doesn’t matter which.
• Salt and pepper, to taste.

Procedure:

1. Pre-heat your oven to 375 ºF. Rinse chicken, pat dry with paper towels, liberally apply salt and pepper to them, and let them come to room temperature.

2. In a large skillet or dutch oven, heat oil over a medium fire. Add chicken legs two at a time, browning well on both sides– about 3 minutes per side. Do your best not to tear the skin. Remove chicken to a plate and set aside until needed later.

3. Let the chicken fatty oil cool down a little, then add your garlic cloves and cook them over medium heat again, stirring and shaking the pan all the while to let then dance about inside. The goal here is to give them a little color– something for which vampires seem to have no appreciation, given their well-known views on daylight.

4. When the garlic is sufficiently browned, add the chicken stock and wine. Arrange your chicken over the garlic cloves, toss in the thyme and lemon zest and bring to a simmer. Do not under any circumstances cross the chicken legs– this is no time for false modesty.

5. When a simmer has been achieved, cover your pan with its accompanying lid or, if you have no lid, aluminum foil, making certain you have a tight seal. Pop the pan into your already-hot oven for about 1 1/2 hours.

6. When the chicken is finished cooking, remove the pan from the oven and place it on your stove top. Take the chicken from the pot and place on a warm plate, covered. Remove, too, the garlic cloves and place in a bowl, also covered for warmth’s sake. Discard the thyme sprigs. Let the pot liquid simmer gently over a lowish medium flame until it has reduced by about half. Turn off the heat, add butter and stir in well. Your sauce should have the consistency of something slightly less than brown gravy. Taste and adjust seasonings to your own, particular preferences.

7. To serve, place chicken legs on a platter, scatter the garlic cloves around them and pour over the sauce. Or just grab a chicken leg, shake it violently at your now-weakened, fleeing demons, and eat it over the sink. However you choose to eat it, just remember to serve it with toast. Lots and lots of toast.

For the sweet, soul-saving garlic, I mean.

Posted in Meatness, Savories, Stage, Film, and Television | Tagged , , , , , , | 33 Comments

Danish Modern

Posted on July 27, 2011 by Michael Procopio

PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS A SPONSORED POST*

These days, my email inbox is filled with requests from people and companies begging for my advice and endorsement, knowing full well that even a casual mention from me will send their page views and/or sales into the stratosphere.

But I have always graciously declined their offers of money and immoral personal services because I have standards. I cannot be bought for the price of a new immersion blender or a bag of frozen peas– even if they do come with a happy ending.

So when Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark sent me a touching letter on such lovely (and expensive) -looking note paper, I was thrown into a great moral quandary:

My dear friend Michael Procopio of the Anaheim Procopios,

I hope this letter finds you well. I realize it’s been ages since my last letter, but I’ve been very busy as of late what with studying climate change in Greenland and siring heirs. I understand your time is very valuable and that it takes much effort and brain power to come up with delicious, career-reviving celebrity-themed recipes, so I will get straight to the point:

My country needs your help. As you know, we are a well-educated, introspective people; our climate is cold and grey. And we’ve never quite gotten over losing Schleswig-Holstein, so we are, as a nation, in a bit of a funk. 

Can I count on you to bring a little sunshine into our otherwise clouded consciousness? I have done my part by marrying an Australian, but we need something more. It is my wish that you dream up a delicious apéritif using our delightful-but-under-utilized cherry wine, Kijafa**? My mother, The Queen, is very impressed by what you’ve done for the careers of two of her favorite entertainers– Shirley Temple and Blossom Dearie. (She sends her love and asks if you still have that little table she sent you from the summer house. She never heard back from you about it.)

Enclosed is one bottle of Kijafa. Do not hesitate to ask for more, should it be needed. Please say “yes”.

Yours very sincerely,

Frederik André Henrik Christian, Kronprins til Danmark, Greve af Monpezat

How could I say no to such a plea? And I do owe his mother a big thank you for the Danish Modern coffee table, though I’ve never dared to ask what those oily stains are around in the middle. I’m just going to assume it’s herring and leave it at that.

It appears that I can indeed be bought for a bottle of liquor and a flattering letter from a Crown Prince.

And, though I may now be a whore, at least I’m a royal whore.

Denmark in its heyday

The Danish Modern

I struggled with the naming of this drink. “The Melancholy Dane” first came to mind, but it’s not exactly what the Crown Prince had in mind when he asked me to cheer up his country. One look at the cherry sunk at the bottom of the glass inspired “The Drowning Ophelia”, but even that was still a bit grim– almost necrophilic.

And so, I fear the best I can do is call it “The Danish Modern” as a much belated thank you in recognition of The Queen’s kind furniture bequest. It has the sleek, clean lines of Danish mid-century design, only not quite-so-sober.

The people of Denmark, V & S Wine Importers, and I hope you enjoy this delightful summer drink.

The Danish Modern

Serves One deep-thinking, deeper-feeling drinker

Ingredients:

4 parts very cold Italian prosecco. A good one.
1 part Kijafa
1 Amarena cherry for garnish. Or if you happen to have some decent Danish ones or, better still, Finnish cherries laying about, use one of them.

Preparation:

1. In the glass of your choosing, pour the Kijafa. Next, pour in the prosecco. Gently drop a cherry into your glass and watch as it sinks to the bottom, much like that sweet, innocent little girl who went crazy in that play by that man about that prince who killed everybody.

2. Sing a few lines of both “Kong Christian” and “Der er et yndigt land”, lift your glass to Good Queen  Margethe II, and enjoy.

* Please tell me you don’t believe a word of this. I have never once taken money from a corporate sponsor for writing a post. I’m not saying that I cannot be bought, because I can. I’m merely waiting for the right offer.

** It should be noted that Kijafa may very well be enjoyed in Denmark, but it is produced in Finland, which possibly the one bit of Scandinavia over which the Danes have had no physical control in their long history. It should also be noted that Kijafa is also the first name of one Ms. Frink, who is (or was) the long-suffering fiancé of Michael Vick, noted football player and dog lover. Whether or not there is a direct link between Ms. Frink and V & S Wine Importers is, at this time, uncertain.


Posted in Liquids | Tagged , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

John Wayne’s Meatballs

Posted on July 12, 2011 by Michael Procopio

John WayneWhen I was a boy, my father owned a little cabin cruiser named “Cope”. It was the name the boat came with, but it suited him– and me– just fine, since it is both the emphasized syllable of our last name and a verb my family has always worked very hard to master.

He kept the boat moored at a slip in Newport Harbor in exchange for dental work with one of his wealthier patients. Occasionally, he would take the boat out deep sea fishing. In my memory, however, its sole purpose was to take me to see the opal fish that swam around Catalina Island.

On one of our excursions, my sister took me by the hand and lead me out to the bow of The Cope as my father steered the boat through the harbor in the early morning haze, hugging the watery edges near the houses where people with money and boat slips of their own lived. As we approached one such home, my sister noticed an old man leaning his terrace railing. Pointing at him, she exclaimed, “Hey, that’s John Wayne!” It got his attention.

The most famous movie cowboy in history was standing a few yards from me, sipping coffee in an old burgundy-colored robe. I waved to him and smiled. He waved back. It should have been a simple, brief encounter between a movie star and a five year-old boy except for one, important detail:

He wasn’t wearing any briefs. Or boxers, for that matter.

Sizzling BallsAs he waved back at me, he crouched down on his haunches to get closer to my eye level, as adults often do when responding to friendly advances of adorable children. Unfortunately for him, his robe opened slightly. It was a subtle parting– the material that covered his legs spread wider than it should have, revealing the impression of something bulbous dangling between his thighs. He was clearly unaware of what happened. But it happened. I am certain of it.

I saw John Wayne’s balls.

My first glimpse of another man’s genitalia was from an aged, Oscar-winning icon. I didn’t know what to do with the information, so I filed it away in my memory. It had no scarring or fetishizing impact on my life beyond dreaming about taking baths with Michael Landon (as Little Joe from Bonanza). In these dreams, we wore nothing but our cowboy hats and played with my Fisher-Price house boat in the bathtub.

You do the math.

A few years ago, my sister told me she didn’t remember the incident, which lead me to think my mind had played some voyeuristic trick on me. Was it all in my head? Why would a five year-old make something like that up? I was beginning to distrust my own memory. That is, until life handed me a random moment of confirmation.

One evening at work, a couple was seated at one of my tables ten minutes after our official closing time. I hid my annoyance as best I could. They apologized for being late– their plane flight was delayed and they just got engaged that evening. The woman extended her hand and flashed her newly-won diamond ring. Under the circumstances, there was no way in hell I was going to rush them. I coursed their food and filled their glasses. I left them to enjoy their meal in loving peace.

At the end of the meal, however, I asked them where they flew in from. “Orange County,” the man replied. I told him I was from Anaheim, he told me he was from Newport Beach. And then the woman blurted out something random-sounding, but extremely helpful:

“His grandfather was John Wayne!” He seemed a little embarrassed by the outburst, but she seemed very proud to be marrying into the family.

I told him about how my father kept his boat near his grandfather’s house. I even went so far as to mention that my brother is his grandfather’s current neighbor at Pacific View cemetery. But I made absolutely no mention of genitalia.

I did, however, take the opportunity to get some sort of confirmation of my childhood glimpse.

“I remember seeing your grandfather out on his terrace when I was a kid, sipping coffee and wearing a ratty old burgundy robe.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. I remember that robe!” was his nostalgic, but memory-verifying response. I knew I didn’t imagine it.

I may forget names, I may forget faces, but I can tell you one thing: I never forget a naked celebrity. Now please remind me to tell you about the time I woke up to find Clint Eastwood naked.

What is it about me and unclothed famous Western cinematic icons?

John Wayne Meatball Sandwich

I’ve kicked this meatball idea around for ages, but was never certain how to approach it. Which genre to apply to a recipe that is to represent the œuvre of a movie legend? His naval films didn’t seem correct– soaking meatballs in brine just felt wrong. Do I salute his turn as Genghis Khan in The Conqueror by making a Mongolian- inspired dish brimming with carcinogens? That would be in very poor taste and no one would eat it. The Quiet Man-wich? That is an idea too intriguing to leave alone, but it isn’t right for this particular posting.

No, a Western-themed meatball sandwich seemed in order. Rio Bravo-meets-The Alamo. Tex-Mex on white bread. It’s what I imagine cowboys would make if they had a lot of time on their hands to bake sandwich rolls and go cilantro-picking. And, though it’s meatballs we’re talking about, I have done my best to steer clear of anything smacking of Spaghetti Westerns. I’ll leave that for my Clint Eastwood post.

Makes 17 meatballs. 16 regular-sized balls and one that is slightly larger, which my doctor says is perfectly normal.

Ingredients:

For the meatballs:

• 1 pound ground beef
• ½ pound ground veal
• ½ pound ground pork
• 2 whole eggs
• 1 cup fresh white bread crumbs soaked in…
• 2 tablespoons of whole milk
• 2 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
• 3 tablespoons finely minced Anaheim chilies
• 1 ½ teaspoons salt
• 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• ½ cup olive oil (for frying)

For the tomato sauce:

• 2 cans of fire-roasted tomatoes (56 oz)
• 1 medium yellow onion, finely diced
• 3 cloves of garlic, finely minced
• 1 tablespoon ground New Mexico chili powder
• 1 teaspoon ground toasted cumin seed
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon of salt
• 1 teaspoon of freshly ground black pepper
• 2 whole bay leaves
• 2 tablespoons of olive oil

For the sandwich assemblage:

• 8″ sandwich rolls
• Monterey Jack and Cotija cheese (the amount is entirely up to your discretion)
• Cilantro leaves– as many as you like

Preparation:

1. In a food processor, purée tomatoes until a fairly smooth consistency is achieved. Some lumps are to be desired. Set aside.

2.In a large sauté pan (I’m using an 11″ pan, which is able to fit all 17 meatballs), heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onions and gently cook them until softened (about 3 minutes). Add minced garlic and sauté for 1 minute longer. Next, add tomatoes. Bring to a simmer, then add chili powder, cinnamon, cumin, salt, pepper, and bay leaf. Keep the sauce at a gentle simmer, covered.

3. To make the meatballs, place all three ground meats in a large work bowl, creating a well in the center into which you will add the eggs, milk-soaked bread crumbs, diced chilies, salt, and pepper. Mix thoroughly but sparingly with your hopefully-clean hands.

4. To form into uniform balls, it is best to weigh your meat. The specific weight chosen for John Wayne’s meatballs is 69 grams. The reason for this number is obvious and not at all what you are thinking, so you can just stop that right now. John Wayne received an Oscar– his only one– for his 1969 role as Rooster Cogburn in True Grit. It is the same weight I would give to Maggie Smith’s balls for her performance in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, should I ever bother to make them.

5. Cup the balls gently in your hands to form, one at a time.When all are nicely shaped, heat 1/2 cup of olive oil in a cast iron skillet over medium-high heat. When the oil begins to sizzle, add half of the meat balls to brown– 3 to 4 minutes on each side. When they are as brown as nuts and thoroughly crusty, you may place them into your simmering tomato sauce. Repeat with the other half of the meatballs. AT THIS POINT, ADD ABOUT 3 TABLESPOONS OF HOT COOKING FAT TO THE TOMATO SAUCE. Stir in. Let the meatballs cook in your gently-simmering sauce for at least 30 minutes before serving.

Before you begin to assemble your sandwiches, it is important to grasp the idea that you are essentially making them upside down. Why are you making them upside down? Because that is the best way to make them. Now, if you would please stop interrupting me, we can get onto our lunch much more quickly.

6. Slice your rolls in two. Hollow out the top half of the bread and either discard or eat its innards. Turn on your oven to broil and place rolls under the flames until they are warm and lightly toasted.  Remove from oven.

7. Fill the top half with tomato sauce and a mixture of shredded Monterey Jack and crumbled Cotija cheese. Place this half of bread back under the broiler until cheese is sufficiently melted. Remove from oven.

8. Take two meatballs* and slice them in half. Lay them cut-side-up into the top half of your roll. Cover them with fresh, clean cilantro leaves. Slather the bottom part of your roll with tomato sauce and then place it, sauce-side-down onto your meat-filled top.

9. Invert and enjoy. If you are eating this particular sandwich in private, have fun. However, if you choose to do so in public, make certain to carry with you plenty of napkins. I’d hate to think of the explaining you’ll have to do when someone asks, “What’s that on your chin?”

It is to be avoided.

* I had considered using three meatballs for this recipe, but the third one kept slipping out of the bread. Feel free to stuff your sandwich with as many as you dare.


Posted in Celebrities, Meatness, Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , , | 37 Comments

Gin Blossom Dearie or, What I Learned from Schoolhouse Rock.

Posted on June 16, 2011 by Michael Procopio

Blossom DearieOnce upon a time, when the world was young, there existed an animated educational series which aired on Saturday mornings entitled Schoolhouse Rock. If you are anywhere near my age– or younger, perhaps– you know it well. The songs were catchy, fun and informative. It is the sole reason that many of my generation know the Preamble of the United States Constitution by heart.

There was one song in the series, however, that unnerved me. Ostensibly a memory aide for multiplication, “Figure Eight” is a surreal look into a classroom-bound girl’s daydream of figure skating, which includes: a little boy’s near-death from hypothermia, a muffler-clad octopus, and finding herself wedged between the legs of Uncle Sam. I sensed a darkness to this song, which surfaced like the blinking, periscope-encased eyes that emerge from the cartoon’s broken ice. And the voice that lent itself to the lyrics was unsettlingly childlike. It was so creepy to me that I felt the need to leave the room every time it aired.

Many years later, my college roommate Craig came home with a compact disc he said I absolutely had to listen to– Needlepoint Magic by Blossom Dearie. “It’s the woman who sang the adjectives song from Schoolhouse Rock!” was all he said. I planned to listen politely in order to humor him. I was going to sit there for a few minutes with a fake smile on my face, pretending that I didn’t loathe this woman whose name was as childish as her voice; this woman who had historically sent me running away from my much-beloved television.

And then it took about 30 seconds to realize that I actually loved everything about this woman’s voice. Sure it was childlike, but there was clearly an adult behind it. It was witty and wistful. It was thin– almost fragile-sounding– but it was beautiful.

Scabiosa Blossom

The Scabiosa is not technically a blossom, but its name was irresistible. Please forgive.

Someone once said of Miss Dearie that her voice couldn’t reach the second story of a doll house, but I could care less. Anyone who can take a song as saccharine as Tea for Two and turn it into something seductive earns a permanent place in my heart.

We listened to her all summer long.

On a trip to New York one Autumn several years later, I conned my boyfriend into seeing Miss Dearie at the now-defunct Danny’s Skylight Room– a small, dingy cabaret space tucked behind Danny’s Seafood Palace on W. 46th Street.

As we walked in from the cold, I noticed a tiny blonde woman in a pale yellow twin set standing up from her stool at the bar after polishing off a plate of food. She made her way to the host desk, where my boyfriend immediately handed her his coat and scarf. She hesitated a moment at the gesture, then smiled and asked for my coat as well.

“For God’s sake, that was Blossom Dearie, not the hat check girl,” I said, more than a little mortified.

“How the hell was I supposed to know who she was?” he replied. I couldn’t think of a good answer before she returned from the closet with our ticket.

All I could think of to say to her was “thank you.”

As we sat in the back of the darkened, tiny cabaret, I looked at the other members of the audience as we listened to Blossom play. I was struck by the fact that my boyfriend and I were the only couple in there who could not qualify for AARP. More importantly, I was also struck by the idea that all of these couples seemed to be very much in love. I looked over at my boyfriend, who looked attentive, but bored.

I pushed the stale New York cheesecake I’d ordered around in its strawberry goo with my fork. We weren’t in love. It hit me that we would never grow into an old couple who sat holding hands, listening to cabaret singers. I downed what was left of my second two-drink-minimum gin martini.

I felt trapped both inside and out. If a fire had broken out, we would all have burned in its flames. Much more than could be said for my relationship, I thought, which never caught fire in the first place. I wanted to drown myself in another martini, but thought better of it. Instead, I let myself be taken in and under by the music.

There was no one song that caused it, but it was there in that awful room that I finally understood what it was that made me uncomfortable listening to the “Figure Eight” song as a child.

It was the sense of longing , the trap of reality, and the idea that the only way to satisfy the longing and make the escape in childhood was through one’s own imagination. I couldn’t have articulated it as a boy, and I didn’t dare articulate it then. But I understood.

I know what you’re thinking– that I’m reading too much into a math-based cartoon. I’m sure I am, but I always do. I’ve been both blessed and cursed with an active imagination.

And the final take-away from my little epiphany in the back of Danny’s Seafood Palace? It certainly wasn’t the cheesecake. In fact, it didn’t occur until this week, when I decided to sit down and really think about Miss Dearie’s music and the effect it’s had on me, so hear it is:

Daydreaming is a great, if temporary, escape from an unsatisfactory life. It’s healthy exercise for one’s imagination, but spending too much time in a Walter Mitty-like state only makes one’s reality all the more unsatisfying.

The trick, I suppose, is turning the daydreams into reality.

It may have taken me several decades to figure that out, but I am grateful that I have. And, in a roundabout way, I have Blossom Dearie and the fine people behind Schoolhouse Rock for that. Who would have thought I’d find more to learn from them than multiplication, grammar, and civics?

So I’m saying thanks again, Blossom but, this time, I’m buying you a drink. Make that two. Minimum.

Gin Blossom Dearie

The Gin Blossom Dearie

Cool as a cucumber; as floral and sweet as her name, but with a little bit of a bitter edge. The blossoms of Spring may have faded and dropped their petals but this, dear readers, is my blossom of Summer. I plan on having several, though not all at once. Ideally, I’ll find a refreshing breeze and someone to peel my grapes for me as I lounge and sip; happy to know that The Best Is Yet To Come.

Makes one Gin Blossom Dearie. If you need to make more– and I know you will– please refer to Schoolhouse Rock if your ability to multiply is shaky.

Ingredients:

2 ounces dry gin
1/2 ounce St. Germain liqueur
1/2 ounce simple syrup
3 dashes of orange bitters
2 slices of cucumber
A good squeeze from a lime
Ice for chilling
Superfine sugar for garnishing the rim*

Preparation:

1. In a cocktail shaker, place  two slices of cucumber. Muddle the hell out of it. Next, add ice cubes, simple syrup, St. Germain, gin, bitters, and lime. Stir well, but gently, my dear, gently.

2. Wet the rim of your cocktail glass (I prefer a coupe as seen in the above photo) on a damp paper towel. Place the now-wet rim of the glass upside down onto a plate of superfine sugar, to achieve a thin, even coating.

3. Having made certain that your cocktail glass has been returned to its upright position, strain your Gin Blossom Dearie into its cold, gaping, glassy mouth.

Pour into your own gaping maw. Repeat as often as necessary.

*I am currently taking my Gin Blossom Dearies without the sugar rim. However, it does dress up an otherwise naked cocktail. I follow the mixology dogma of Mame Dennis, who feels that olives take up too much room in such a little glass. I extend that philosophy to nearly all of my cocktails, including this one, so no garnishes.

Posted in Celebrities, Liquids | Tagged , , , , | 39 Comments