Sand in My Pants

pecan sandies crumbledIt was a Kiwi sailboat captain who first told me about St. Procopio’s beach. Spreading itself wide along the western coastline of Naxos, its shores were gently slapped and tickled by the cool blue waters of St. Procopio’s Bay as Mount St. Procopio cast its beatific shade from the east.

At least, that is how I assumed it would be, given the name. Captain Patrick suggested my friends and I might rent Vespas and ride down to the most Procopio place on earth the next afternoon. I imagined myself making a slow, pious progress to the water’s edge where, surrounded by my companions, I would plunge my hand into the fine, warm sand; raise my arm; and gently loosen my fist so that the granules fell gracefully (and neatly) into an awaiting, worthy receptacle.

“Don’t worry, Gary,” I’d say to one of my friends, “we’ll find St. Humbarger’s Beach… someday.” He would be comforted and moved to tears by my generousness of spirit.

But fate–or at least the prevailing winds– had other plans. We wouldn’t have time to make an official pilgrimage if we were to make our next port-of-call by nightfall. When Patrick broke the news, I looked visibly deflated. Not as if someone had let the wind out of my sails, but out of my lungs. Fortunately, he had another idea wherein I might have plenty of opportunity to refill them– this time with water.

“You could swim for it,” he said. He told me he could probably get our sailboat about a quarter of a mile from the beach. He stressed that fact that a great deal of swimming would be necessary on my part. “Think you can do it?”

I was about to brag that I was trained by an Olympic swimming coach, which was true, but thought better of it when I recalled that I was best remembered for repeatedly shitting in terror as I was flung into the deep end of the poor woman’s pool. I also thought of Shelley Winters showing off her swimming medals in The Poseidon Adventure just before diving underwater to save Gene Hackman. Her subsequent death scene was especially touching.

“Yeah, I can totally do it!” I said, hoping an outburst of Southern California enthusiasm might help distract him from the look of bowel-related concern my face probably betrayed.  I supposed I didn’t have to go through with it, but I was very aware of the fact that I would most likely never find myself in this situation again and wholly consumed by the idea that I absolutely had to collect sand from this beach to give to my father as a souvenir of my journey.

Patrick gave me a ten-minute warning before we were to reach the bay of Agios Prokopios, as it’s called in Greek I hopped into my swim trunks and searched around in panic for something appropriate in which to place the sand. With no ivory boxes with chased silver clasps to be found anywhere on our small sailboat, I dumped out the contents of my clear plastic, zipper-topped toiletry bag and shoved it down my pants. My treasure will be safe in there, I thought, as if sand somehow needed to be protected from water.

Above deck, my friends were waiting for me. Mostly, I imagine, they were waiting to get this thing over with. They were kind enough to humor me, but I had the sense that the grandeur of my quest was completely lost on them. I steadied myself along the starboard side of the boat and, when the boat reached its closest point to the shore, I jumped.

The water was cool and exceptionally clear. But there was so much of it between me and my precious sand. A quarter of a mile didn’t seem like much of a distance when I was dry, but now that I was floating in the Aegean Sea with a plastic bag shoved between the support netting of my swimsuit and my junk, I saw things quite differently. But I had an important job to do, so I swam.

And swam. And then I swam some more. My legs got tired. The plastic bag was threatening my chances of ever reproducing, so I shoved it into a side pocket, hoping it wouldn’t fall out as my graceful, Dick Cavill-esque Australian crawl degenerated into outright flailing. I looked back to see the boat slowly circling behind me. It didn’t seem far enough away from me for my liking. Not as far away as the beach, at any rate.

When I finally made it to the shore, it was on my hands and knees– gasping for air, spitting up salt water, and making obscene noises like a harbor seal crammed into a pair of navy blue trunks. I sat on the edge of the beach, trying to catch my breath, hoping my heart wouldn’t explode. Looking out to sea, the boat seemed very far away as it moved back and forth over the horizon, but it didn’t matter because I was now surrounded by my quarry– fine, white sand flecked with gold and brown.

Though disturbingly out of breath, I was proud of myself for not drowning.

My brief moment of self-satisfaction was interrupted by what sounded alarmingly like German. I turned around to find several people staring at me– every last one of them as brown and wrinkled as a shelled pecan. Two women, who wore matching, wide-brimmed sun hats and nothing else,  glared at me with palpable disapproval. A man wearing even less than his companions seemed to be trying to tell me something important, it was almost entirely lost on me until I heard him utter “Eff Kah Kah” while shaking his head and pulling at the imaginary waistband of a pair of pants he most definitely not wearing.

By some administrative oversight in the early 1980s, our cable company piped all of their available pay channels onto my family’s main television. I took an active (and clandestine) interest in a program called “Sexcetera: The News According to Playboy.” One particularly vivid segment was their visit to The Englischer Garten in Munich, which contained an area dedicated to Free Body Culture or, more commonly, nudism.

Eff Kah Kah. Freikörper-bloody-kultur. I was grateful for my early exposure to educational television, but saddened to know that my precious beach was overrun by naked Germans. And Germans who wouldn’t stop staring and making gestures at that. I turned my attention back to the water. I was still too tired swim back to the boat and didn’t wish to waste precious energy by moving to a more textile-friendly part of the beach. In front of me was a sailboat full of friends I feared would get bored and abandon me on Naxos like some hairy-chested Ariadne; behind me, a large group of increasingly irate, Northern European nudists. My situation was anything but relaxing. My vision of a Procopio paradise was shattered.

Or was it? I kept concentrating on the word “paradise” until I realized that no one wore clothes in capital “p” Paradise. Certainly not Adam and Eve. Noting that there were no fruit-bearing trees in sight, I decided that stripping was the safest and most energy-efficient thing I could do under the circumstances. I unknotted the drawstring of my trunks and shimmied out of them, placing them neatly, but dramatically by my side. I somehow hoped that my critics would be pleased by my gesture, but when I turned around, they had stopped looking as if the last five minutes had never happened. It was as though my nudity had made me somehow invisible to them. I felt both liberated and insulted by their inattention. I sat there pondering the state of my own nakedness for a few more minutes until I felt ready to swim back to the boat. I filled the plastic bag with sand, pulled on my shorts, and headed into the water before the Germans started grunting again.

I sensibly took my time on the return trip, opting for a more leisurely Esther Williams backstroke— one looks much more relaxed and inhales far less sea water that way.

When I climbed back onto the boat, a friend handed me a much-needed gin and tonic. I pulled the bag from my pocket and saw that at least half of the booty had been lost in my exertion, but as I sat there on the deck gently infusing alcohol into my bloodstream, I realized that there seemed to be plenty of it clinging to my own booty, which I had neglected to brush off in my haste to get away from the denizens of my beach.  I thought it best not to add it to my father’s gift. Instead, I rinsed out my trunks, letting the sand make its eventual return to its rightful home, somehow happy knowing that by virtue of some gentle chaffing, there would soon be a little extra bit of Procopio on Agios Prokopios beach.

pecan sandies

Pecan Sandies

These cookies are aptly named– crumbling to the texture of fine sand at the slightest pressure. Fortunately, these treats do not require thousands of years of pounding surf to make like real sand does. And they are infinitely tastier and more digestible.

Makes about 36 cookies. Or about enough fake sand to cover one square foot of an imaginary, confectionary beach.


• 1 cup of unsalted butter (room temperature)
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1 2/3 cup all purpose flour
• 2/3 cup pecans, toasted and finely ground
• 1/8 teaspoon salt
• Powdered sugar for dusting


1. Heat your oven to 350ºF.

2. Cream together the butter and sugar until light and very fluffy and it looks alarmingly similar to Crisco. Using the paddle attachment of an electric mixer makes this an easy task,  but this effect can also be achieved manually with a great amount of exertion. Add vanilla extract.

3. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, ground pecans, and salt. Gradually stir in these dry ingredients into the sugary, buttery fluff until just combined.

4. Refrigerate for a minimum of two hours, or ignore the dough completely until you find you have use of it.

5. Roll the chilled dough into equal-sized balls (I like a 20g cookie, myself) and place them 12 at a time onto an un-greased, parchment-lined cookie sheet.

6. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until the bottoms and sides begin to brown, like an FKK-er napping on his stomach. Remove cookies to a cooling rack and dust with powdered sugar while they are still warm. Do not dust actual nudists with powdered sugar without their consent.

7. When cool, you may now eat the cookies whole, letting them crumble in your mouth or you may crush them with clean hands, letting the grains of cookie sand tumble into an awaiting receptacle. What you do with this sand is now up to you. Gift it to loved ones and enjoy their confused faces as the smile and wonder what the hell you’ve just given them. Sit alone in your apartment watching Maggie Smith in George Bernard Shaw’s The Millionairess* on YouTube as you shovel the crumbs into your mouth with a large silver spoon. Invent an adult role playing game which involves you as a hapless traveler and your mate as an angry nudist on a pecan sandy beach.

*My preferred method of enjoyment.

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A Bohemian Birthday

Foie Gras Cookie SandwichesI’d barely recovered from the shock of waking up to a naked Clint Eastwood when all those Republican governors started singing me “Happy Birthday”.

I was spending the better part of July as head waiter and bartender to a small group of rich, white Republican men up in the redwood forests of the Russian River at a secretive little sanctuary named Bohemian Grove or, as I liked to call it, Billionaire Sleep-Away Camp. It was a fascinating mix of people, where one might see Henry Kissinger in Bermuda shorts or Jimmy Buffet rubbing shoulders with Warren Buffet or just about anyone peeing on anything that didn’t move of its own accord.

I ran the dining room for one of the older groups called Roaring Camp and the bar I tended there was once owned by Jack London, who carved his initials on one of the inside mahogany panels. I wondered how depressed it would make him to know that his manly diet of beer and whiskey had been abandoned by the club’s present members in favor of oaky chardonnay.

Our camp was located between Poker Flat, a dull little cabin with a giant Ritz cracker adorning its front entrance, and Poison Oak, where Steve Miller and his musician pals lived in a giant tree house, jammed onstage nightly, and paid their employees considerably more than my conservative Republican members paid me.

But I wasn’t working for the money— I did it for the stories I could tell. And because my friend Danny asked me to. He needed someone with experience to run the dining room while he took care of the business details. And he wanted a homosexual because Ernie, the camp’s enormous president who reminded me of a pink-fleshed Jabba the Hut, didn’t want any “hippies or fags” working for him. Danny was the hippie. He thought I would be the ideal fag for the job.

And I think I was. I had promised Danny I would butch it up for my interview with Ernie, but it was one promise I was unable to keep.

The questioning had barely begun when I spotted a photo of him on the wall of his office standing with a dead celebrity. “Is that you with Phil Harris?” I asked.

“Umm, yes. You know who Phil Harris is?” He seemed a little stunned. He moved his entire body in order to move his head towards the photograph. His neck seemed to be made entirely of fat. When combined with his full-bodied swiveling, it gave the impression of being little more than a fleshy brace which served only to support and immobilize his gigantic head.

“Of course I do. Big Band leader. Voice of Baloo from the Jungle Book!” I got up out of my chair to look at the other photos. “And there you are with his wife, little Miss Alice Faye.” I had just blown my butch promise to Danny, but Ernie was so pleased with my celebrity identification that both of them failed to notice that I was channeling Elizabeth Taylor as Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

I was hired on the spot.

Foie Gras Sugar CookieFor the most part, I liked the members of Roaring Camp. The gentleman who created the television shows Cheers and Taxi was a favorite. The founder of the unfortunately named Otis Spunkmeyer Cookie Company was nice enough, but he insisted we serve his wares after dinner, which had to be prepared in the special Spunkmeyer oven he thoughtfully provided for our kitchen, which sat on the counter near the giant Spunkmeyer instructional poster hanging from the kitchen door. The most famous member of all was Mr. Clint Eastwood, who seemed to be the only person in the camp who didn’t think breakfast dishes floated into the kitchen sink and magically wash themselves. We had a very lovely getting-to-know-you chat about amoebic dysentery. And then there was the morning I woke up to use the communal bathroom and found him standing there completely naked chatting with Ernie, who was equally starkers.

The realization that I just accidentally stumbled upon the intimate areas of yet another Western cinematic icon was almost too much to bear. The added sight of Ernie strutting his stuff made certain that it was. And it was that image I was desperately trying to rid from my memory when those governors started serenading me.

Roaring Camp was throwing a barbecue luncheon for about 100 people and Danny and I had our hands full running about replenishing food, pouring drinks, and preventing the place from looking like a superfund site. About four Republican governors were pointed out to me, but I can remember none of them because they weren’t in any way famous to me. But John Wayne’s son Patrick was there– he was in my favorite Aspen Soda commercial from the 1970s, so I knew who he was. I had to resist the urge to tell him about the time I met his father. John Ratzenberger (Cliff from Cheers) milled about looking a bit lost, and Jerry Brown was there most likely because he found out there was free food to be had.

At some point well into the event, Ernie called for everyone to pipe down, thanked his guests for attending, gave a little speech, and congratulated our chefs for the good grub. Then, to my horror, he singled me out.

“And the guy whose been pouring your drinks all afternoon, well, it’s his birthday. Let’s all sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Michael!”

I was standing behind the bar when they began to sing. I had not asked for this and my embarrassment caused me to sink slowly beneath the bar’s highly polished horizon. By the end of the tune, I was entirely out of sight, crouching in safety, and wishing I was anywhere else but there.

Later that evening, when the dinner service was over, the dishes were washed, and the Otis Spunkmeyer cookies were placed on the bar next to the tray of ports and whiskies, Danny commandeered a bottle of Dom Perignon and we headed next door to share it with our friends at Poison Oak. Steve Miller was jamming with some friends, which included members from various groups like ZZ Top, Foreigner, The Grateful Dead, and a gentleman who went by the stage name of Richard Cheese. These men were pointed out to me as we relaxed and drank our champagne. And then someone from my group pointed out that it was my birthday, so the gentlemen onstage obliged me with an acoustic version of the birthday song. I enjoyed it much more than I did the afternoon serenade.

As I sat there under the giant redwoods, it suddenly struck me that I would probably never have so many famous musicians and politicians serenade me like this again. I drank it all in with as much pleasure as I took in drinking my champagne.

Foie Gras MousselineDanny and I later hitched a ride to visit Kevin and Dave, our friends from culinary school who were the chefs at a much more gastronomically sophisticated but decidedly geriatric camp up the hill. They had liberated two bottles of Corton-Charlemagne from the camp’s wine cellar and supplied generous amounts of paté de foie gras, toast points, sugar cookies, and marijuana. They were, in my estimation, excellent hosts.

After smoking a little weed, we drank the wine and soon discovered there were not enough pieces of toast to support the amount of engorged duck liver delicacy provided. Undaunted, I slathered a generous amount onto one of the sugar cookies my friends had also thoughtfully provided. For good measure, I placed a second cookie on top to make a giant foie gras sandwich.

“It might be because I’m stoned, but this tastes really fucking good right now,” I said with my mouth full to no one and everyone about my current food pairing, flicking the crumbs from my chest. Initially, they seemed dubious, but eventually all performed the same experiment and agreed with my assessment. I thought I was being brilliant, as though no one in the known universe had ever paired sugar and animal organs together before.

I took a long sip of wine and another bite of the sandwich, concentrating on the sensation of foie gras melting and coating my tongue. It was rich and fatty, just like the men I was taking care of that summer.

And that made me think of Ernie again. He was probably sitting in the dining room back at Roaring Camp calling for us to pour him some of the port we left within easy reach for him at the bar. But in my pot-fueled imagination, he had suddenly lost his clothes and was now singing “Happy Birthday.”

I slowly sank down into my deck chair, but this time I didn’t have Jack London’s bar to shield me from the mental view. So I just poured myself another glass of Corton-Charlemagne and did my best to shake it off.

But I put the cookie sandwich down. I’d had more than enough.

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Meet Me at The SCOTUS Bar.

LavenderOn Friday morning, I awoke to the ding of an incoming email. It was from my cousin.

“With liberty & justice for all!!!” it began. I didn’t need to read any further to understand what she was talking about.

Energized but still rather groggy, I immediately jumped onto my Facebook feed, which had suddenly taken on such a dramatic and distinctive rainbow hue that I half expected to find a leprechaun when I scrolled down to the bottom. Apparently it was true– Marriage Equality was just made legal across the board in the United States.

Wanting to learn more, I clicked on a New York Times article about the landmark Supreme Court decision. But I had to stop reading for a moment when I got to the paragraph that read:

“As Justice Kennedy finished announcing his opinion from the bench on Friday, several lawyers seated in the bar section of the court’s gallery wiped away tears, while others grinned and exchanged embraces.”

My excitement about the decision was matched by another bit of incredible (and apparently erroneous) news. THE GALLERY OF THE SUPREME COURT HAS A BAR.

Wanting to add my own two cents to the wonderful wave of social media enthusiasm, I mentioned my own joy at discovering this new-to-me judiciary cocktail lounge. I imagined it must have been a very popular (and necessary) place to be in the weeks leading up to the decision. I also added something to the effect that I would like to buy the five justices who voted in favor of marriage equality a drink. And that I would be serving the other four iced water, poured into their black-robed laps with extra gay flourish.

The first person to comment was my friend Susan, who said she hoped I’d be creating a cocktail to mark the occasion. And I couldn’t think of any good reason why I shouldn’t.

Another friend jokingly suggested a Pousse-Café— a layered, rainbow-like drink so aggressively garish it would make a down-market drag queen recoil. No, what was needed was a cocktail sufficiently strong-yet-understated that it might help persuade a group of sober judges to become decidedly less so.

So here it is. Meet me at the SCOTUS bar and I’ll buy you all a round or two, where we can weep tears of joy into to them, for just a hint of umami. And drama. Because, well, obviously.

THE SCOTUS 75 Lavender cocktail

This cocktail is a take on The French 75, but made with American products. It is subtly flavored with lavender, which might also bring to mind the French (chiefly because it is called “French lavender”), but that cannot be helped. I assure you that, in this particular instance, said plant was born and raised in the USA.

I typically don’t have much use for lavender, apart from in cleaning products. When I was 16, I visited a perfume factory in Èze, France, where there was a bin of lavender flowers so enormous that I nearly passed out from the fumes. “Don’t you have the great illness of the head from such a large smell?” I asked our tour guide in the French I was taught by a conspicuously pregnant American high school teacher. Although she may simply have been struggling to understand the thought I was trying to express, the overall look on her face was one of surprised annoyance. “I smell nothing,” she replied with a curt, Gallic shrug. I suppose one can get used to anything if one is around it long enough.

And that, my friends, is what I plan on telling anyone who is upset with this recent decision.

To say that someone has “the touch of lavender” about them is to imply that they he or she is gay. It’s a rather archaic term from the days when nearly every aspect of the lives of gay men and women was spoken in code because concealment and discretion were often necessary for survival.

Added with a sufficiently light hand, a touch of lavender won’t smell or taste of your grandmother’s soap. Instead, it will give off a gentle, calming whiff, like the faded sachet she hid under the boxed-up bridal gown she saved in case her future granddaughter might want to wear it for her own wedding some day. Which, of course, now she can– regardless of whom she chooses to marry.

Makes one appropriately festive cocktail.


• 1 ounce of gin
• 1/2 ounce of lavender syrup
• 1/2 ounce of lemon juice
• A shake of Peychaud’s bitters
• A pipette’s-worth of tears, either real or, if you aren’t good at crying, manufactured.
• Domestic sparkling wine (Please note this may be the only time I suggest something other than French champagne but, in this case, it needs to be American.)
• A tall sprig of lavender for garnish

For the lavender syrup:

• 1 cup of water
• 2 cups of sugar
• 3 tablespoons of fresh lavender buds


1. Make the lavender syrup by combining all its ingredients in a saucepan and heat over a medium flame. Stir until all of the sugar is dissolved. Let the mixture gently simmer for about 5 minutes, then take off the heat. Let cool, then strain the flowers from the syrup.

2. To make the cocktail, pour the syrup, gin, lemon juice, and bitters over ice into a cocktail shaker. Stir until very cold and pour into the base of whatever glass you might be using. I have chosen a champagne flute because the sparkling wine added next is very much meant to be like champagne.

3. Fill the remaining space of the glass with said sparkling wine.

Adding Tears4. For an added touch, cry directly into your glass. Or, if you lack good aim, into a vessel wide enough to catch your eye rain. Tears of joy and relief add a certain amount of depth and character to the drink. Tears of anger, frustration, and disappointment may be added, but please note that bitterness has already been supplied by the Peychaud’s.

5. Garnish with a sprig of lavender long enough to double as a swizzle stick.

6. Serve to your favorite Supreme Court justice.

Posted in Liquids, Rants and Stories | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments

“Curtains” or: “7 Little Von Trapps and Then There Were None.”

jam dollopsHow do you solve a problem like Maria? In the United States, the answer would probably be “by lethal injection”. Austria, on the other hand, has done away with the death penalty. It might not be an appropriate solution for dealing with a flibbertigibbet or even a will-o’-the-wisp, but a serial child murder? Quite possibly.

I’m not implying that the real Maria Von Trapp was anything of the kind. And I have nothing against Julie Andrews in the least. It’s just that, lately, I can’t stop imagining The Sound of Music as an entirely different sort of entertainment.

As I sat down to eat breakfast with my coworkers several days ago, I remembered my friend Katie was performing in a stage show on the peninsula, so I asked her how it was going.

“What’s the name of it again?” I inquired between slurps of bone broth.

“It’s called ‘Curtains’”, she replied.

“I think that name would be a good title for a Sound of Music murder mystery or something.”

“Why’s that?” she asked.

“You know, Maria made play clothes for the children out of her old curtains. I was just thinking how fun it’d be if the kids started dropping off, you know… one by one.” I was just being an idiot, but idiotic thoughts have a way of staying with me.

It’s not that I don’t care for the movie—quite the opposite is true. It’s just that it would have been so much better had the Von Trapp children been even remotely interesting. Or had they been able to maintain their vaguely English accents from one line to the next. Or had they been able to act. When I hear that wearisome septet sing “Doh, a dee-ya, a female dee-ya,” it makes me want to cry, to quote the otherwise unquotable Marta.

I feel The Sound of Music would be a much more entertaining film if Maria was a sugar-and-spice novitiate on the outside, but a cold, ruthless murderess at her amoral core. She may claim to the Reverend Mother that she is unable to control what she thinks and feels, but in truth, she is in full control of her emotions, such as they are, and lays on the kind-and-loving shtick so brilliantly that she gains not only entry to the Von Trapp house but gains the trust of everyone residing within it.

In my version of the film, the only person who sees through Maria’s song and dance is the beautiful baroness. Unfortunately, Baroness Schrader misinterprets the deception as mere gold-diggery, and not cold-blooded serial murder. She does the decent thing and distances herself from Captain Von Trapp when she realizes he’s in love with his governess (whom he promptly marries). Tragically, it is not within her power to send the children to boarding school as she had intended, where they would be safely out of reach from the deadly machinations of Maria.

But how would they go, these seven hapless Von Trapps? What a good question. I have a few ideas, but if you, dear reader, can think of more appropriate endings for them, do write in. This is a work in progress.

Here’s a tentative list, in the order of their demise.

 Liesl— Maria convinces The Captain that his eldest is indeed old enough to stay and taste her first champagne. After consuming an entire bottle at Maria’s insistence, it is suggested that Liesl retire to the gazebo in order to finish off a second, which she does. Her body is found the next morning. She had been leaping from bench to bench without the assistance of a telegram messenger and crashed through the glass structure. In the fall, which rendered her unconscious, she suffered a thousand little cuts, from which she slowly bled to death.

Friedrich— Trained in the precise and deadly art of alpine medicine ball tossing, Maria “accidentally” hits the poor boy directly in the face at family playtime. He was struck with such force and at such an angle that his nasal bones pierced his brain, killing him instantly*.

Gretl—The heavy brocade material used to make Gretl’s bib overalls were made even heavier by Maria’s subtle and inspired addition of lead inserts. Out on the lake one afternoon with her remaining siblings and governess-cum-stiefmutter, the boat overturns and the youngest Von Trapp sinks like a stone in the deepest part of the lake.

Louisa— Known for keeping jars of arachnids on hand to terrorize governesses, the sturdy young blonde has the tables tragically turned upon her when Maria releases hundreds of dornfingerspinnen, or yellow sack spiders, under the unsuspecting girl’s counterpane. Though not killed outright by the dozens of venomous bites she incurs, the pain and discomfort are so pronounced that she quickly goes insane and is shipped to a clinic on the Dalmatian coast to convalesce, which mysteriously burns to the ground with her in it shortly after her arrival.

Marta becomes the first (and to date, the only) case of a person dying from a surfeit of ladybugs, which were reported to have been one of her favorite things.

Unable to cope without her sisters, Brigitta listens intently as Maria sings “Düsteren Sonntag”, otherwise known as “The Hungarian Suicide Song”. Inspired, Brigitta decides to leave a note for her father stating that she is “glad to go, [she] cannot tell a lie.” She then climbs to the rooftop where she flits and floats. Having read his sole surviving daughter’s last missive, her father races to the roof in order to talk her down, but she fleetly flees from him and flies over the edge, breaking her neck on the lawn very near where her eldest sister met her own end.

And poor, incorrigible Kurt is once again overlooked and dies of neglect. No one notices.

Maria, who has now successfully eliminated all physical evidence of Captain Von Trapp’s prior marriage, suggests to him that they start a family of their own together, offering herself to him on the floor of the ballroom directly in front of the puppet stage which had so recently been the scene of so much happiness. He breaks down and tells her that he couldn’t bear the thought of bringing another child into the world for fear of losing it. She cradles his head in her lap as he cries, consoling him with a chilling rendition of “So Long, Farewell” as she reaches for the nearest available marionette, the strings of which she could use to strangle her emotionally weakened husband and thus inherit his fortune and lovely lakeside home.

At that very moment, the baroness and her gay best friend Uncle Max burst in. With a powerful combination of bitchy comments, fabulous style, and superior breeding, they foil Maria’s attempt on Georg’s life and drive her from the house. The Captain realizes his mistake of choosing a homicidal-yet-alluringly-musical servant with no significant references over a world-weary sophisticate with a heart of gold. Elsa Schrader gets what she’s always wanted– a man who needs her, Uncle Max gets unlimited access to the Von Trapp wine cellar, and the three of them live happily ever after. Until the Nazis take over the country a few weeks later.

And what of Maria? She flees on foot over the mountains. But instead of heading west to Switzerland, she veers north into Germany, where she is allowed to ply her hideous talents on unruly children until the end of the war. She is later found guilty of crimes against humanity at the Nürnberg trails and imprisoned.

Roll Credits.


Salzburger Nockerl

How fortunate it is that there is a dessert which fits the above story like a murderous glove? It’s a frothy little conceit, just like the original film, and yet it hides a bloody secret– dollops of raspberry jam are buried beneath powdered sugar-dusted mountains of meringue. Three mountains, to be exact: Festungsberg, Mönchsberg and Kapuzinerberg, which are the mountains which happen to surround the charming Austrian city of Mozart and Sound of Music tour busses. I’ve added seven spoonfuls of jam– one for each Von Trapp child. Name them as you place them one by one into the luxurious lake of cream.

This recipe is a modified version of one found on Epicurious. All other recipes researched were  confusing and very horribly written.

Serves 7 6 5 4 3 2 Whoever is left to eat it. 


• 1/4 cup of heavy cream
• 7 generous dollops of raspberry jam
• 5 large egg whites (at room temperature– you don’t want eggs straight from the fridge.)
• 3/4 teaspoon of kosher salt
• 1/2 cup of white sugar
• 1 tablespoon of all-purpose flour
• 3 egg yolks (hopefully you are smart enough to have gotten them from 3 of the 5 eggs you’ve already abused for their whites)
• 1 teaspoon of pure vanilla extract
• Powdered sugar for faking snow-capped peaks


1. Place your oven rack to the middle position in your oven. Heat this very same oven to 400°F.

2. In a 9-inch oval baking dish, pour the cream so that it shallowly covers the bottom. With a soup spoon or, if you don’t believe in soup, a similarly-sized one, place seven dollops of jam. I like to say the name of each Von Trapp child as I go, always placing Liesl in the center.

meringue3. Combine the egg whites and salt in the bowl of an electric mixer and whip until soft peaks form. At this point, continue beating as you add the sugar a little at a time until it is all gone and your egg whites have transformed into stiff, glossy peaks. Sprinkle the flour over your egg whites and fold in gently, but very thoroughly– streaks of flour in meringues are unpleasant, not to mention embarrassing.

4. Whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla until they are frothy but not rabid-looking. Fold them into the whites with the same élan you so recently performed with the flour.

5. Spoon three enormous globs of meringue into the awaiting, jam-speckled cream, shaping them to look like distinct peaks of a mountain chain, but making certain that all of the cream base is covered.

6. Pop into the oven and bake for 15 minutes. When it is finished, it will still be a trifle jiggly, but do not become upset by this. If you want a less custardy sort of nockerl, turn the oven off, but leave the dish in the oven for another 5 to 10 minutes. Or, you know, until you’re comfortable taking it out.

7. When you do remove it from the oven, dust it with powdered sugar to suggest snow– pure, innocent, cleansing snow.

Serve warm to the Austrian Navy Captain nearest you. If you are of a somewhat Shakespearean bent, you can pretend you’re Titus Andronicus and that he is Tamora, unsuspectingly eating her own children. It is an abrupt switch of gender to be certain, but I strongly believe your imagination can handle it.

Or you can just eat the whole damn thing by yourself and pretend none of this ever happened because no one is going to want to talk to you now that you’ve just hypothetically killed off all the children from their favorite movie, which they will never be able to watch in quite the same way again after reading this post.

So long, fare well for now,


* True fans of The Sound of Music will know that Nicholas Hammond, who played Friedrich, went on to portray “Doug Simpson”, who dissed Marcia after her own nose was broken (less fatally) by another type of ball.

Posted in Stage, Film, and Television, Sweets and the Like | Tagged , , , , , | 30 Comments

Dazed and Infused

Olive CocktailIn my opinion, vodka is the Daniel Day-Lewis of the spirit world. On its own, it’s as neutral and boring as it is strong. And yet it has an almost preternatural ability to absorb the personality of almost anything you can throw at it (or, in this case, in it), which makes it oddly fascinating. And highly drinkable.

I would have said “watchable” to continue the Daniel Day-Lewis metaphor, but the act of watching vodka is as painfully tedious as watching all 160 minutes of Gangs of New York. You could be doing something much better with your life. For example: infusing vodkas with interesting flavors which, with the help of a few friends, an immersion circulator, and a vacuum sealer, will take up the exact same amount of your time.

Like most of you reading this, I have neither an immersion circulator nor a vacuum sealer, but I do have friends. And some of those friends happen to own the above-mentioned equipment to make alcoholic infusions.

Lucky me.

A couple of weeks ago, I drove down to my friends Craig and Shannon Rosa’s house with my friends Sean and Paul for the express purpose of making vodka (and cheap brandy) more interesting to drink. We’d played around with infusions in the past with great success– the limoncello and candy cap mushroom-infused brandy were big hits. It gave me the idea that one could put pretty much anything into alcohol, suck out the air, warm it at a constant temperature for a couple of hours and have it be drinkable. So I decided to just go for it. What I ended up with was a sort of three-course Easter meal designed for alcoholics.

It wasn’t intentional– it’s just what happened. But I’m very glad it did because I’m of the mind that people who like to drink their dinner should be allowed to enjoy themselves at the table just as much as those who prefer chewing do.

On any given holiday in my family, there was always a large platter of antipasti available for noshing before we all sat down to dinner– olives, salumi, peppers, etc. A Clean Dirty Martini would make an excellent liquid replacement. By simply throwing a few of your favorite olives into 2 cups of vodka and preparing it the sous vide way, you can have a delightfully clear cocktail that is redolent of Castelventranos rather than a dingy-looking one that tastes of brine and formaldehyde. In a way, it’s a (marginally) healthier alternative to a Dirty Martini.


Ham CocktailWhen it’s time to sit down with your loved ones, you can now afford to say a polite “no thank you” to your uncle as he stands at the head of table slicing the Easter ham. Tell him you’ve brought your own this year– in your hip flask. By adding 4 ounces of ham steak, 3 rings of canned pineapple which have been studded with 3 cloves a piece, and 1/2 cup of simple syrup to 1 cup of vodka, you can have a cocktail that tastes alarmingly just like an Easter Ham in about two hours, the immersion cooking way.

Anyone for seconds? Yes, please. But do remind me to perfect my Green Bean Casserole Shooters for next year– even drinkers need a side dish now and then.

pompelmocelloAnd finally, no holiday meal is complete without a decadent dessert. After the long self-denial of the Lenten Season, a chilled glass of pompelmocello is just the thing to finish of your repast with elegant fluidity and a fine way to toast to Christ’s health, may it be better the second time around.

Pompelmocello, if it’s truly a word, is a grapefruit version of limoncello, but much better, because it doesn’t taste like Lemon Pledge. To make it, follow this recipe from Sean Timberlake*, who bore witness to my other sous vide experiments and didn’t even raise an eyebrow when I told him I wanted to make a smoked kipper liqueur. I really want to do that one next time.

If you do have an immersion circulator and a fondness for alcohol, there is almost nothing beyond your power. Think of all the other festive occasions you could drink your way through. Hot Dog Old Fashioneds and Sauerkraut Shrubs for Independence Day. Pixie Stix Fizzes for Halloween. Gingerbread House Cocktails for Christmas. Princess Cake Daiquiris to help cope with your daughter’s quinceañera.

Just the thought of being able to theme-drink my way through the calendar year makes me positively giddy. The actual doing of it, however, is sure to leave me dazed and infused.

But I’m game, if you are. Especially if you have an immersion circulator I can borrow for a few hours. I’ll bet Daniel Day-Lewis has one. He probably has one of everything. Except Oscars, I mean– he’s got three, which truly speaks to the awesome power of absorption.


*The link is actually to his limoncello recipe, but I have faith that my readers are smart enough to know what needs to be substituted in order to make it grapefruit flavored.

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The Biggest Sausage on Melrose

BockwurstThe evening started out innocently enough– a quiet back to school dinner with friends. But my highly prized purity was somehow called into question before the appetizers had even arrived.

My friend Alex had chosen a little Italian restaurant on Melrose as the gathering place for our last meal before we started our final year at UCLA. It was cozy and dark and employed a jazz quartet off to one side which played all the old standards. I can’t remember the name of the place, but I felt very much at home. There were enormous grissini placed in the middle of the table shooting up from the bottom of a water glass like glutenous phalluses. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it was a centerpiece more fitting than flowers, given the direction the night was about to take.

We ordered drinks and appetizers, chatted about school, what classes we were taking. The usual banal conversation one makes with people one doesn’t know deeply. My martini arrived– beautiful in its enormity– and it reminded me that I should probably make a bit of room for it, so I excused myself and made my way past the jazz quartet and through the door into the men’s room.

It was a small facility, and there were two side-by-side urinals, which I never much enjoy, but I had the whole room to myself. I could relax and enjoy doing what it is one generally does when confronted with both a full bladder and a large porcelain bowl. But as soon as I began, the door opened. An old man approached the open spot next to mine and joined me. I nodded to him in the way most men do when forced to acknowledge each other when both of their hands are occupied with other business. He nodded back. And that was the moment I realized I was peeing next to Mr. Television himself, Milton Berle. He smiled at me, then did something that left me temporarily confused. He looked down at my equipment, turned his head to look at his own, gave a slight jerk of the neck in his direction, then smiled and nodded again, but then went back to concentrating on his own business.

Was I just cruised by The Thief of Bad Gags? It didn’t feel like it, but it did make me extremely uncomfortable. I finished up, washed my hands, and made my way back to the table. “You’ll never guess who I just peed next to,” I said. “Milton Berle!” Celebrity sightings are a common occurrence in Los Angeles– you  point them out to friends with the same level of enthusiasm as pointing out a squirrel running across the lawn in the suburbs, so I was very surprised by the amount of interest my remark caused every one of my fellow diners.

“Did you see it?” asked Alex, almost breathless.

“See what?” I asked

“His COCK!” he exclaimed. His English accent made it oddly acceptable to me that he had just yelled the word “cock” in public place. But few people could have heard it over the noise and the jazz music.

“I’m not in the habit of looking at other people’s junk when I’m trying to pee,” I responded somewhat indignantly. “Besides, why would I want to see an octogenarian’s cock.” I borrowed his accent for extra emphasis on the last word. The whole table groaned at my ignorance.

texaco-star-theater-milton-berle_thumb“Michael, Milton Berle is supposed to have the biggest dick in Hollywood!” he said, even louder.

“How do you even know that!?” I asked, somewhat disgusted, but matching him in volume. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the men’s room door opened and the spotlight that was on the jazz quartet moved swiftly on to Mr. Berle. The band had seen him go in. They’d been biding their time for the moment he re-emerged. As soon as the light hit the rather surprised old man, they gave him an over-the-top musical “Ta-Da!” The whole restaurant erupted in laughter and applause. Uncle Miltie, ever the ham, bowed in thanks. With my newly found knowledge, I couldn’t help but think he was bowing to his own penis.

It was then that I was able to decipher his strange men’s room body language. He was basically telling me, “Yeah, it’s me. Go ahead and look if you want to. Everybody does.” I might have been the only person in the place who didn’t know about Milton Berle’s endowment,  yet I was the only person he invited to look at it. I found a small bit of comfort and satisfaction from that thought, then took a large sip of my martini. The eyes of everyone at the table had by then left Mr. Berle and returned to me, so I did the only thing that seemed appropriate, given the occasion: I picked up an exceptionally long grissini and toyed with it for a moment, and attacked it from the side of my mouth as Bugs Bunny might each a particularly challenging carrot. And then I raised my glass in a toast:

“To missed opportunities,” I said, taking another deep sip to help wash down the dry breadstick. It was well received and repeated back. I settled in with the menu to order my main course. There was sausage on the menu, but I declined. I thought I’d had enough for one evening.

But, as it turned out, I hadn’t. After dinner, we all wandered down the street to Drake’s at Midnight, a surprisingly well-lit adult store to gawk and giggle at sex toys and porn titles. It was there that I got an eyeful of a handsome, quiet Mormon co-worker from my restaurant– his sausage prominently displayed on the cover of a gay porn video right out in the open for everyone to see. It was impressive, but not so much as Mr. Berle’s.

Not that I would know. But everybody else does, so you might as well ask them.

Bockwurst sandwich

Open-faced Bockwurst Sandwich (aka The Uncle Miltie)

There’s more to the story, of course, but you’ll need to buy me a drink if you want to hear the rest of it.

The literal sausage in the story was of the Italian variety, sliced up and served with farfalle pasta, sun-dried tomatoes, and basil (as pretty much everything was in those days). I just don’t think it suits the story at all. The thought of slicing it sends shivers down my spine.

So the recipe has taken a decidedly German turn. Bockwurst originated in Berlin and, as luck would have it, the name Milton Berle was born with was Mendel Berlinger. Typically there is a bit of pork mixed in the the sausage’s veal stuffing, but Berle was quite the ham, so there you have it.

It’s open-faced, right out there for all the world to see. The only difference between it and Mr. Berle is that this sausage remains uncut when presented to the unsuspecting.

Serves One Unwitting Innocent

• 1 Bockwurst (Or whatever sausage suits your tastes)
• 1 slice of pumpernickel bread, toasted
• A thick slathering of good, German mustard
• A handful of sauerkraut, drained. Any more than that is a waste, I’ve heard it said.
• A few tender greens (I’ve used radish tops, but watercress would be lovely)
• A few dollops of mashed potatoes


1. In a vessel big enough to take a large sausage, pour in a paltry 3 to 4 inches of water and a pinch of salt. Bring to a boil and then reduce to a gentle simmer. Slip in the sausage. DO NOT LET THE WATER RETURN TO A BOIL. If you do, the casing will explode and you will have a very disappointing and unattractive mess on your hands. Continue at said gentle simmer until the bockwurst is cooked through– turgid and yet giving. Keep warm.

2. As your sausage is simmering, toast your pumpernickel and warm your mashed potatoes (I am not teaching you how to make mashed potatoes today, so please don’t ask.)

3. Slather the warm toasted bread (it’s not easy to tell visually when pumpernickel is toasted, but it does make for a much more solid sandwich base) with mustard, cover with drained sauerkraut, blanket that with greens, spoon the warm mashed potatoes next, and then finally secure the hot sausage in its anchoring bed of potato-y fluff.

4. Bockwurst is traditionally served with bock beer, but I say have it with a martini. You’ll need something strong to cope with what’s on the plate in front of you.

5. Just how you go about eating it is entirely up to you– knifed-and-forked or picked up whole with your hands, eaten in the privacy of your own home our out in public for all the world to see. I’m the last person on earth who’s going to tell you how to handle your own sausage.

6. As a little something extra, try covering the wiener with some cheese and placing it under the broiler to make a Miltie Melt? No, I wouldn’t do that, either.

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I Don’t Know Your Life

OnionsIt was my friend Joe’s turn to entertain us as we sat around our campfire on the edge of the Sahara desert. It was more of an anecdote than a full-fledged story, but it contained within it a moral lesson I’ve never forgotten, but which took a long time to fully grasp. And, unfortunately, practice.

It involved an affluent, middle-aged white woman who entered a Kentucky Fried Chicken alone. When she placed her order for two buckets of Original Recipe, the young black girl behind the counter asked, “Will that be for here or to go?” Indignant, the older woman responded in a huff, “Do you really think that I’d eat two buckets of friend chicken right here? All by myself?” The girl behind the counter looked her up and down, shrugged her shoulders, and said quite matter-of-factly, “I don’t know your life.”

At the time, I took it for what it was– a punchline. I found the story funny and yet I resented it to some degree because it made me hungry for something I didn’t have– a bucket of crispy, salty, golden fried chicken– and more disappointed in the steaming pot of hen flesh in front of me that seemed to fall apart in my hand.

When my friends and I sat down at the beginning of the meal, our Berber host announced that he had a special dinner prepared for us– tagine. I was deeply dissatisfied. I was hungry from a day spent keeping astride the hump of a horny, angry camel and climbing sand dunes, but tagine was the one “authentic” taste I’d grown truly sick of during our two weeks in Morocco. Everywhere we went, dishes of aromatic braised chicken were presented to us with piles of couscous or bread in what seemed a gesture of obsessive national pride. It caused me to wonder how long a Moroccan visitor to the United States would be able to bear his American hosts offering him a cheeseburger at every meal.

I knew I was being ungrateful. But I was hungry and ate without audible complaint.

Chicken for tagineAfter dinner,we wandered the dunes in the moonlight, sometimes laying belly up in the sand to look up at the stars. We were the only source of noise for miles– no cars or insects or planes or scorpions–  just us. Someone cracked a joke, the others laughed. Someone else expressed his wish that our friend Dan could have been here to enjoy this. I wanted everyone quiet. It was the one place in the world where I had hoped to experience extreme silence and they, I felt, were ruining it.

I didn’t want anyone talking. I especially didn’t want anyone talking about Dan. Not anything kind about him, at any rate. I felt it was my job to talk about him, and then only to complain. I was the reason he wasn’t there. Frustrated, I yelled at everyone, “Shut. The Fuck. Up!” like I screamed out my window in college at drunken frat boys. My outburst was met with several minutes of well-deserved sniggering and imitation. But everyone did eventually quiet down to enjoy a few minutes of stillness before finding our way back to the camp and falling asleep side by side under our camel blankets and a full moon.

I awoke because my shoulder was cold. Jean-Phillipe, who’d been sleeping on my right, was missing and a chill had gotten in. When I sat up, I could see him a few yards away staring up at the sky. He motioned to me to join him. He headed up one of the giant sand dunes and I followed.

Olives TagineWe didn’t talk at first. We just sat there, looking up at the moon. The only sound I could hear was my own heart beating– I’d huffed and puffed my way up to the summit. It frightened me, because it sounded as if it would burst at any moment. The silence I’d begged for earlier now made me profoundly uncomfortable, so I started talking.

I shared with Jean-Phillipe my experience with our friend Dan and why he wasn’t here, which I’m sure he already knew: We were friends and drew closer to each other on an earlier trip. He left his boyfriend, feelings got very complicated, neither of us knew what to do about it. After much discussion and many assurances, feelings were acted upon. Then he went back to his boyfriend as if nothing had ever happened. I felt betrayed and lied to and became single-minded in my demand for an official apology. I couldn’t understand why my friends– most of whom were sleeping below us in the desert– refused to take sides. I played the role of victim with all the histrionics I could muster, like a hairy-legged, bourbon-drinking damsel tied to the railroad tracks by a black-caped villain. In other words, unconvincingly.

Jean-Phillipe put his hand on my shoulder for a moment to quiet me and then he began to speak for a long time. About love and loss, the sometimes shitty nature of men, and, most importantly, forgiveness. Not self-help book platitudes, but scenes from his own life he chose to share. The silence of our surroundings made his voice almost supernaturally clear– for those few hours on top of the sand dunes, it was the only thing that existed. There was nothing else for me to do but listen. When he’d finished, we talked of other, less important things and I sat there stargazing with him in the first state of inward calm I’d felt in months. I climbed down from that dune feeling as though my heart might explode from being pumped full of so much peace and forgiveness.

But that feeling evaporated with the daylight, as things in the desert usually do. Our midnight talk faded like a dream. Or a mirage, given my surroundings. My conversation with Jean-Phillipe didn’t magically dispel my unhappiness or desire for an apology– I still demanded one. But it did manage to form a tiny crack the foundation of my stony moral certitude. I was still angry and unable to forgive this terrible perceived wrong that had been done to me. And I stayed that way until the end of our trip, which terminated in London, where I planned to have dinner with my first boyfriend, Frank.

It was dinner which was organized so that I could officially apologize and ask forgiveness for being such an asshole to him nearly 15 years earlier, because what’s a story about the discomforts of personal growth without a nice dash of irony?

Frank patiently listened to my extended apology with the open calmness of a trained clinical psychologist, which he happened to be. He’d forgiven me ages ago and moved on with his life. But he was smart enough to know that I hadn’t yet forgiven myself and kind enough to let me talk. The slow, horrifying sense of what a hypocritical ass I’d been began to creep over me. I’d assumed Frank would have held a grudge against me for treating him poorly, because lord knows I would have held one against him if the shoe had been on the other foot. But he’s not that kind of person. I hadn’t seen him in years. I didn’t know his life, but he was clearly living a much happier one than I was.

I booked myself into psychotherapy as soon as I got home.

In the weeks that followed my first session, I found myself riding that angry camel into the desert over and over again back to that campsite and the tagine and Joe’s story.

I kept thinking about that woman in the KFC and the girl behind the counter who didn’t know her life. And then I imagined Dan as the woman and me behind the counter, not judging, for a change. I didn’t know his life or state of mind anymore than I knew if he could eat two buckets of Original Recipe at one sitting. It wasn’t up to me to examine his motivations or actions. My therapist hinted that it was up to me to start examining my own. And I really didn’t like what I saw.

But I took some comfort in climbing back up the sand dune with Jean-Phillipe, where I sit under a full moon and mine his words for wisdom. I did that frequently. I kept hearing him urging me to forgive and move on. It took dozens of exhausting mental ascents and therapy sessions to realize he wasn’t just talking about the need to forgive another person, but the necessity of forgiving one’s self as well. Or so I like to imagine. I found my behavior even harder to forgive than Dan’s.

Eventually, Dan and I met up at my local park to make peace. We both apologized. I felt it was important for me to give him one. The strange thing was that I no longer needed one from him. But I took that lesson from my first boyfriend in London to heart and let him do it because he simply might have needed to. Then again, maybe he didn’t. I really couldn’t tell you because I simply don’t know his life.



Tagine with Olives and Tomatoes

You may find yourself asking why I’ve chosen to make tagine, since all I’ve done is complain about it. The answer is this: it’s incredibly forgiving. The chicken can simmer more or less unattended for hours, cooking until it falls apart when you touch it, which is what it’s supposed to do. It is tenderness itself. And that’s something everyone could use a bit more of in our lives, both from within and without.

And I’ve wanted to write about that evening in the Sahara for a long time, but just didn’t know how because it was one of the most emotionally complicated nights of my life. I spent that dinner wanting something nonexistent and critical of what was warm and nourishing and present– not only the tagine, but the friends who shared it with me.

This month, Jean-Phillipe died very suddenly in Montreal. He has been in my thoughts ever since. With the exception of that night on the dunes, we were never close. On the few occasions when I did see him, he’d fondly remember our conversation. I just wish I could have told him how important it was for me.

Serves 3 to 4 people, depending on hunger level


• 5 to 6 chicken thighs, depending upon the size of your vessel
• 2 tablespoons of olive oil
• 2 tablespoons of frying fat from the chicken
• 1 whole yellow onion, sliced thinly lengthwise
• 3 cloves of garlic, crushed
• 2 tablespoons of tagine spice mix*
• 2/3 cup chopped olives (choose ones you prefer)
• 2/3 cup oil-packed roasted tomatoes
• The zest of 1/2 lemon, julienned or grated**
• 1 cup of water
• Salt


1. Add the olive oil to the bottom of your tagine, which has been placed on your stove top. If you don’t have one, any heavy-bottomed pot with a tight-fitting lid (like a Dutch oven) will do. Turn heat to medium. Salt your chicken thighs, then add them to the pot skin side down until golden. Flip them over and brown the less attractive side. Set aside for later use. They do not need to be cooked through.

2. Remove all but two tablespoons of the chicken fat/olive oil mixture at the bottom of your pan. Reheat and add the sliced onions and stir to distribute the cooking fat amongst them. Add your spices and continue to stir until the onions are fragrant and softened, but not browned. Next add the water, olives, tomatoes, and lemon zest. Stir to blend, then place your chicken, skin side up on top of the mixture. Cover the pot with its lid and cook over a low-medium flame for about 45 minutes. Do not keep checking its progress— this is one instance in which letting off steam is not a good thing. Go do something else, like make couscous or something constructive.

3. After 45 minutes, remove lid and turn the chicken thighs skin side down. Cover and cook for another 30 minutes or until the chicken barely holds on to the bone.

4. Remove from the heat and immediately serve over heaping piles of couscous or, if you prefer, with slices of crusty bread to absorb the wonderful sauce.

5. Share with friends and be grateful for what you have in front of you. Tell your stories and listen to theirs. You never know when they might come in handy.

* I like to use a ready-made tagine spice mix, because it’s convenient. If you’re one of those people who like to do things the hard way, combine equal parts: cayenne, cinnamon, coriander, cardamom, turmeric, allspice, clove, and paprika. Also, if you’re one of those people who likes to do things the hard why, you probably won’t be making tagine– it’s too easy.

** You may use preserved lemons, if you like. I simply have neither the taste nor the patience for them.

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From Fork to Farm

Pre-seeded ManureThe Farm to Fork movement has made news in recent years, raising consumer consciousness about sustainability and where our dinner comes from. Many consumers of locally sourced, organic foods take pride in developing relationships with the farmers who grow their apples, spinach, and lettuces, but there is an expanding population of food enthusiasts who want to take this relationship to a higher, more intimate level.

“It isn’t enough for me to know where my food comes from,” says Doug Bottoms of San Francisco,” I want to know where my food’s food comes from.”

Bottoms is one of a dozen or so urban farmers who is turning the Farm to Fork revolution on its head. As he likes to put it, he and his friends are living a “Fork to Farm” lifestyle. Not only do they grow as much of their own food as possible,  they take pains to create the manure that nourishes it.

It is the ultimate form of recycling.

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body, because I know what comes out of it is so precious,” states Bottoms.

Creating one’s own manure isn’t for the faint of heart. The collection of materials goes far beyond saving bits of egg shell, potato peel, and coffee grounds, as one can imagine. “Gathering the prime material was a bit tricky at first,” Bottoms admits. “I originally tried using a kitchen colander, but my girlfriend refused to eat anything that touched it. And the handles made sitting uncomfortable.” He has now created a catch-all made from non-rusting steel mesh. “You’d never know it was there if you weren’t looking. Now I can create in total comfort.”

At work“Late Sunday morning is an ideal time for me to concentrate on my compost,” he added. “Armed with the New York Times and a double shot of Four Barrel Friendo Blendo, I head into the bathroom and get to work. All of it is compostable.”

But in an over-crowded city like San Francisco, space is at a premium.

“All available green space– window boxes, patio, emergency exit landing– are devoted to growing food. There’s simply no place for my composting bin outdoors,” confesses Bottoms. “So I use my roommate’s bathroom. He has anosmia plus he works in tech, so he’s never home. He’s a coder for Google, so it’s not as though he’d ever bring anyone home to smell it. I compost in his shower. It’s the perfect arrangement– although my girlfriend makes me keep the door closed with a bath towel stuffed in the floor gap.”

But it isn’t what comes from Bottoms that stinks, he claims. “I’ve carefully curated my diet over the past several months: carrots, lentils, charcoal pills– I’ve achieved an odorless ideal. I have not smelled a thing in nearly two weeks. I think that’s some kind of record.” He claims that the odor emanating from his bathroom compost heap is from the natural decay of other organic materials, noting that when he uses shredded bits of the San Francisco Chronicle Food Section, the odor is almost unbearable.

KohlrabiIs the bother of daily collection, of turning and wetting and tending an indoor compost bin worth the trouble? Bottoms thinks so.

“One of the unforeseen benefits of apartment composting is the heat it generates. My gas bill hasn’t been this low in years. And you should see what it did for my kohlrabi– it nearly exploded out of the soil. Although my girlfriend refuses to eat it.”

“Everything about the process of making home-grown compost has been rewarding. My garden’s taken off. I produce almost 50% of the vegetables I consumed this year. I’ve met some amazing people who share my passion for the organic lifestyle. And, most importantly, I’ve gotten to know myself much more intimately than I ever knew was possible.”

Bottoms has been so successful at being a self-composter, he’s admitted to having more of the stuff than he knows what to do with.

“My mother has been especially encouraging. She’s said frequently to anyone who’ll listen that she always knew I had it in me. She’s gone so far as to say I’m simply full of it and she’s absolutely right.”

As a result, Doug Bottoms is giving his locally sourced, artisan compost as Holiday gifts.

“I’m filling everyone’s stocking with it this year! My mail person, yoga instructor, friends, family. Everyone. Except my girlfriend. She says she’s had enough.”

“I am so glad that I can share a bit of myself with the world this Holiday Season,” he added as a final note. “I’ve reached deep within myself this year. I’d like to spread it around and touch as many people with it as I can. There is no better present than the gift of yourself. It’s what I’ve come to think of as the true meaning of Christmas.”

Jars of Shit



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The Tijuana Donkey

Tequila Bottle

I’ve never understood the allure of the Moscow Mule. Apart from the participation of vodka, it is decidedly un-Russian. At the time of the drink’s invention in 1941, what self-respecting Soviet would have chosen to dilute his precious vodka with anything, let alone a decadent Western fizzing beverage? Even more disappointing is that not one bit of the eponymous animal can be found in a Moscow Mule, just equal measures of cock and bull (see: decadent Western fizzing beverage.)

No, this ersatz Muscovite libation was the brainchild of a large Connecticut conglomerate who owned the rights to Smirnoff Vodka (which no one wanted to drink), who met a man in Hollywood with cases of un-consumed home-made ginger beer collecting dust in the basement of his restaurant, The Cock and Bull (see also: decadent Western fizzing beverage), who was friends with the owner of a copper factory who had far too many copper mugs on her hands.

In my opinion, there as never been a cocktail creation myth more American than the Moscow Mule. All that’s missing from the story is a plucky lime* heiress with a heart of gold.

The fact that the Moscow Mule is once again popular isn’t too surprising. It’s an excellent cocktail for people who don’t really care for the taste of alcohol, who lack any sort of booze-related imagination, and who are willing to do whatever Oprah tells them to do. It’s sweet, has a catchy name, and comes in a sweaty metal container which causes the uninitiated to wonder aloud, “What on earth are you drinking?” Its gauzy veil of Eastern exoticism distracts us from its essentially bland and neutral spirit.

And I reject the cocktail utterly. To me it is a symbol of three unforgivable evils: Corporate America, the inauthentic (How many Russians have even seen a lime?), and Russia itself (I am fond of its culture, but not its government). Why pay homage to any of them, I ask? Unless you’re simply a conformist. If so, then go right on drinking these little flagons of resignation.

As for me, I shall repurpose my little copper cups with the kicking mule embossed upon them and use them for a(n) (almost) totally authentic cocktail, which I am calling The Tijuana Donkey. Why drink a cocktail which glorifies cold, distant Russia, when you can drink one to celebrate our warm and friendly neighbor, Mexico?

It is a libation that brings back many happy memories of my teenage years– a time when I was too young to legally make caesar salads in my own country, so my friends and I would cross over into the welcoming arms of Tijuana, Mexico– a city brimming with hospitality and fresh, seasonal produce.

As we strolled down Avenida Revolución, looking for organic romaine lettuce and locally sourced Worcestershire sauce, my “amigos” and I were often personally invited into quaint, traditional Mexican drinking establishments with charming names like Señor Frog’s and Papas & Beer.

Spent LimeEventually, we accepted one such invitation because we had developed a serious thirst in the course of our quest. Almost immediately upon being seated, my always-thoughtful friend Douglas motioned to a waiter and pointed to me, indicating that I was very much in need of refreshment. A small glass was placed in front of me into which a quantity of beverage made from the exotic-sounding blue agave was poured, accompanied by an equal amount of carbonated lemon-lime drink. It certainly looked refreshing! As I was about to take a sip, imagine my surprise when our waiter covered the glass with the palm of one hand, picked it up with the other and slammed it down on the table in front of me! And, in what I consider a case of hospitality gone too far, pulled my head back and poured the now-frothing concoction down my throat, holding a dirty rag over my mouth and nose until I swallowed. Whistles were blown (in my ear), people applauded, and a wedge of lime was given to me for what I assume were its disinfectant properties.

Such a production for one little drink! Tragically, one was hardly enough to slake my considerable thirst. I found it necessary to consume several, which was exhausting but, after the first six or seven, I hardly noticed the rag at all. Or the ringing in my ears.  When we received the bill, I discovered that we had been drinking something called “Tequila Poppers”, much to my under-aged horror.

That was a very long time ago, but the memory– and my fondness for the blue agave–has stayed with me.

Unfortunately, a growing fear of loud noises and shattering barware has rendered me unable to drink tequila poppers exactly as I did in my college days, but that hasn’t stopped me from enjoying this delicious trio of los auténticos sabores de Tijuana: tequila, lemon-lime soda, and dirty rag lime in a my own way.

Tijuana Donkey

The Tijuana Donkey

Moscow has never been famous for its mules, but the donkeys of Tijuana are another matter entirely. Tourists have been famously fond of posing with ones which have been painted to look like zebras. And, for the more theatrically-oriented, donkeys can be found delighting (and surprising) predominantly male audiences in live variety acts on stages throughout the city.

Very few people can tell the difference between a kicking mule and an excitable donkey when confronted with one etched onto the side of a copper mug. After a few of these drinks, even fewer will be able to read the words “Moscow Mule” which typically accompany it. For the self-conscious, you may choose to have them either re-engraved or simply scratch the lettering out with a razor blade.

Makes: One drink with plenty of kick. If you’re catering to a crowd and happen to have a large copper bucket on hand, you can whip up a big batch and refer to it as “Tijuana Donkey Punch.”


• Decent, but not very expensive tequila
• A decadent Western, lemon-lime flavored fizzing beverage such as 7-Up, Sprite or Jarritos.
• The juice of 1/2 a lime
• Ice
• Coach’s whistle and dirty dish towel for garnish.


1. Fill a copper drinking cup with ice. Preferably one which has seen better days, much like Tijuana itself.

2. Add equal parts tequila and flavored soda. You may at this point serve the Tijuana Donkey to your guest or to yourself, squeezing in the lime at the last moment, and sopping up any stray lime juice or tequila with your rag.

Or, for a somewhat more authentic taste of 1980s Tijuana, proceed as follows:

3. Place dirty towel over the top of the cup, situating the palm of your right hand over that. Raise the cup approximately six inches from the surface of your table or countertop with your left hand and slam it down with great force several times. If you are doing this at your mother’s house, please use a coaster.

4. Find a strainer and the nearest willing recipient of this beverage. Making certain to first strain all the ice from the now-foaming drink, push his or her head back by the forehead, blow whistle directly into the victim’s drinker’s ear.

5. Pour drink down his or her throat, making certain to cover the mouth and nose with the rag to facilitate swallowing. When the beverage has been consumed, rub rag over the entirety of their face for dramatic effect. Applaud. Offer lime.

6. Repeat as often as they are willing.

7. If you are drinking Tijuana Donkeys alone, make certain to remove the whistle from your mouth before consuming to avoid unnecessary choking hazards.

* The first Moscow Mules were made, however, with lemon.



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¡Vamos, Gigantes!

Gigantes FinishedBefore I begin, I should like everyone to know that I am a Giants fan, but one of an extremely subtle variety. Thanks to working for the Sunkist company at Disneyland as a teenager, I understand that the wearing of orange causes me to look as if I am suffering from Addison’s disease. And the only time I allowed myself to visit a psychic, she told me in no uncertain terms that it was dangerous for me to wear black anywhere near my face. It breaks my heart to be both physically and psychically prevented from the wearing of our great team’s colors. So, how then, does a person like me show support for our Messrs. October without resorting to sartorial display?

I very much enjoy baseball, but I’m just not one of those people who ever catches the fever, so to speak, even though I am surrounded by folks who cough and sneeze nothing but Giants, Giants, Giants. It’s nearly impossible to whip me into a frenzy about any aerobic activity which involves two or more players messing about with balls, which is why you’ll never find me cheering wildly.

And which is more than likely why I am single.

But take me to a game and I’m bound to let my beer get warm and my garlic fries get cold because I’m too busy peering through my opera glasses binoculars at the action on the field. Or, during the endless periods of inaction, at the impressive tailoring of the players’ uniforms. Away from the stadium, however, I don’t give America’s pastime a second thought, much to my great civic shame.

Until playoff season starts, that is. And then it’s all I hear about. At least in San Francisco.

DillI hop into a taxi and invariably, after a moment or two of silence, the driver asks, “So…are you a Giants fan?” Though I would like to respond with “Well, the Jolly Green one gives me the creeps, but I did find André the Giant’s turn as Fezzik in The Princess Bride so endearing that,on the whole, I’d have to say ‘yes'”, but I’m afraid of getting thrown out of the cab. Instead, I always respond, “Of course!” And then I let the driver go on and on while I nod in agreement and count the blocks to work where I can make my escape.

Except there is no escape. When I sit down to a pre-shift meal with my co-workers, The San Francisco Giants is the sole topic of conversation. Man or woman, cook or server, busboy or bartender– everyone seems to be discussing baseball, both in English and Spanish. Whether it’s The Giants, The “Yai-ants”, or Los Gigantes, I feel a supreme disconnect with my workmates because they are all speaking a language in which I cannot communicate well.

To me, Baseball-ese is a lot like Spanish– I understand most of the key words and structure, I appreciate the alien beauty of it, but completely miss the nuances. And when I try to speak it, I find myself stumbling and grasping for words, feeling like a complete idiot. So I clam up and wonder to myself if there is a Rosetta Stone program for Conversational Baseball.

When I am at my tables and a guest asks to know the score of a game, I apologize and imply that I’ve been far to busy attending to his or her needs to selfishly sneak away to find out. And then we’ll both hear half the restaurant either scream or groan in unison and the question is more or less answered.

It was while I was taking the order of one such guest that I hit upon the one way I could comfortably promote my team.

Raw BeansOn our menu, we offer a bubbling hot dish of Greek giant beans baked in tomato sauce and  topped with herbed feta and pesto. They’re called gigantes. A woman asked for them as an appetizer, mangling the word as she spoke it. “Can we get an order of dji-gan-tees, too, please?” She knew she’d mispronounced it and asked me the proper way to say it. “It’s yi-gan-des,” I said and then added, “Or if you want to get all Spanish about it, you can call them “hee-gahn-tes.”

“Spanish for ‘giants’, right?” she said. When I replied in the affirmative, she continued, “Well now we have to order them.”

Taking things one step further, I suggest that, rather than eat them prior to their meat course, I bring them out to accompany their shared plate of rotisserie lamb, explaining that each dish would be improved by the company of the other, to which she agreed. I was about to make what I thought was a clever baseball analogy by adding that the beans would act as cheerleaders for the lamb, but then I remembered that would be an unfortunate football analogy, so I simply said, “Yeah, that’ll be good.”

I may not found the clever turn of phrase I was looking for, but I did manage to find my own way to support my boys– through the magic of baked beans.

From now until the end of The World Series, I will be showing my civic pride by ensuring there’s a piping hot dish of beans on every table in my section of the restaurant. There’s going to be something in the air at Kokkari– the smell of excitement. Of team spirit. Of the beans that will help to win The World Series.

¡Vamos Gigantes!

Gigantes Prepped


These Greek beans (which can also be spelled “gigandes”, which is much less interesting to me) are large, tough sons-of-bitches. They must be soaked overnight and gently cooked for what seems like ages to coax out their softer inner qualities. It makes one think of Babe Ruth visiting that little boy in the hospital. Or maybe it just makes you think what a pain in the ass making these beans is going to be. And to that I say, if you can’t take 90 minutes out of your life to simmer beans, then you obviously don’t want the San Francisco Giants to win. And if you happen to be from Kansas City, I would completely understand. But if you are from Kansas City, you should make them anyway. You could burn them in effigy under the broiler or lace them with something unpleasant (but non-lethal) and serve them to those you suspect of having Bay Area sympathies.

Makes enough for at least 6 people to be very full of beans.


For the beans:

• 1 pound of dried gigantes. You can find these at most Greek markets. If you do not have access to a Greek market, dried butter beans will work as well.
• 1 large yellow onion, coarsely chopped
• 1 large carrot, peeled and also coarsely chopped
• 2 celery stalks, chopped coarsely
• 1 large leek, light green parts and all, chopped in a coarse manner (when doing all of this coarse chopping, please bear in mind that these bits will be served with the beans as well, so don’t make them as coarse as, say, Wallace Beery in Dinner at Eight. They should be more like Denholm Elliot in Room With A View)
• 2 cloves of garlic, minced
• 1 tablespoon of  dried Greek oregano. Although, in this case, I think Mexican is appropriate, too.
• 2 bay leaves
• 1/2 cup of extra-virgin olive oil
• Plenty of sea salt and pepper
• 4 tablespoons (or more, if you like) finely chopped fresh dill

For the tomato sauce:

• One 28-ounce can of San Marzano tomatoes, juice and all
• 2 cloves of garlic
• 1/4 cup of extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 tablespoon of dried oregano from the country of your choosing
• Salt

To finish the dish:

• Plenty more fresh dill, minced
• As much Greek feta as you are comfortable with, crumbled.


1. Place the gigantes in a large bowl and cover them with cold water 3 inches above the bean line, making sure you have first removed the beans from their cellophane bag with Greek lettering on it you more than likely cannot read. Let them soak overnight.

2. When ready to use, drain and rinse the beans, then pour them into a stockpot and cover with cold water with 2 inches to spare. Bring to a simmer over high heat, skimming the surface foam as it rises to the top– an activity which is surprisingly satisfying. Add 2 tablespoons of salt, cover and adjust the heat so that the water bubbles at a gentle simmer. After 45 minutes, add your Denholm Elliotted vegetables, the garlic and the bay leaves. Kick up the heat to return the water to a subtle simmer and cook, uncovered, until the beans are tender. This could take from 45 minutes to 1 hour, depending upon the beans. Test one every so often towards the end of cooking to test for doneness.

3. As the beans are cooking for the second 45 minutes you could spend your time doing any number of things, like checking baseball scores or watching telenovelas, but the most efficient use of your time would be making the tomato sauce for the beans.

• Liberating the tomatoes from their can, purée them in a food processor with their juice and set aside. In a medium saucepan, heat the oil over a middling heat. Crush the 2 cloves of garlic with the heel of your palm against the flat edge of a knife– you want a release of juices and increased surface area, not total annihilation. Add the abused cloves to the hot oil and fry them until they begin to brown. Think: “khaki” or “desert sand”. Shades of brown-nose and beaver are to be avoided. Remove the oil from the heat source and discard the doubly-traumatized garlic cloves.

• Add the tomato purée to the hot oil– making certain you are not wearing any shirt or blouse you are particularly attached to because it’s really going to spatter and hiss– then return the pan to medium heat. Stir often while cooking and keep the sauce at a gentle simmer until it reduces, thickens, and doesn’t taste like raw tomatoes. You may use a bit of tomato past as a cheat, but why bother? Remember: you’ve got 45 minutes to kill. Add the oregano and cook for another 5 minutes or so. Season with salt to taste. Turn off the heat but leave the sauce on the stove to keep warm.

4. When the beans have been proclaimed tender, but not disintegrated, gently drain them into a colander. Remove the bay leaves and return beans to the pot. Pour over the tomato sauce, toss in a handful of chopped dill (that’s the 4 tablespoons in the ingredients list) and season with a generous amount of freshly ground pepper and more salt. Give everything a gentle stir until the beans are evenly covered with tomato sauce, then transfer them to a large baking dish to cool. Cover the beans and refrigerate overnight to let all the ingredients mingle and get to know each other better.

5. When ready to serve, heat your oven to 350°F and pop the covered baking dish inside until the beans are hot and steamy. If you plan on serving the entire baking dish to, say, the entire San Francisco Giants bullpen then dot the entire surface with as much crumbled feta as you dare, crank up the oven and place the whole thing under the broiler. If your ambitions are more modest, take as much as you need, place in an appropriately sized heat proof baking dish, top with an equally appropriate amount of feta and proceed. When the beans are bubbling and the cheese has melted and lightly browned (buff, not burnt sienna), remove from the oven, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with more dill.

To serve, turn on the World Series and consume as many gigantes as you possibly can. If you eat enough of them, you can cheer the team on with your own internal vuvuzela, if that sounds like something you’d enjoy. Or do vuvuzelas have something to do with another team sport where people play with balls? I forget.

* Please note that, although this recipe is heavily based upon the one in the Kokkari cookbook, it is not exactly the same. If you feel the need to know what I am talking about, you may purchase their book here. Also, I had absolutely nothing to do with the cookbook. Unless that is if you count the fact that I prevented the phrase “Kokkari has the cleanest rims in town” from being used in the introduction– an action I regret to this very day.


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