A funny thing happened on the way to the Apollo. I realized that I liked my little corner of the internet. Warning – if you come here regularly, you can skip the next 3 sentences. But if you come here regularly, you already know you can skip most everything. But don’t skip everything, because there are notes herein for the 3 people who read this blog regularly.
Mid-life cris…career change. Documentary photography, storytelling. I need a presence on the web, right? It’s obligatory. Bam, half-assed website created, add a blog. Adding a blog felt like an affront to actual bloggers. I just wanted a place where I could point an editor to. An editor who wouldn’t mind that I end sentences with to. Ok, he can take a photo, he understands the news, and he can write a caption. But Squarespace templates haven’t got a place where you can point an editor to template option. Well, they have got that – it’s called a blog. And I’ve realized I like posting here.
I’ve made some friends, and it’s an easy way to keep in touch with my folks. Sorry for the f-bombs, mom and dad. But some things are fucked.
Damn, I am eating a perfect meal right now. Absolutely perfect, so perfect that if this was all I could eat until the End Times, I could do it. The way 2020 is going, End Times could be the 4th of July, so I can definitely do it.
Chickpeas, (somewhat soggy) quinoa, minced garlic (got lazy, bought a huge tub at the store, please don’t judge too harshly), a dash of garlic salt, many dashes of pepper, dash of cayenne pepper, red pepper flakes, and…chives. I have no clue what the hell a chive is. I bought them for a reason that will become a little clearer a bit later. But back to the Gala of Garbanzos. The last of the chives were in my fridge, and I am trying to achieve small Home Econ victories, so I decided to chuck them in. Not sure if you use the whole chive. I did. If one end is a heavy dose of arsenic, please send me a message ASAP. In the era of COVID and climate change, seems a shame to go out on recklessly prepared chive.
That meal was delicious and so easy. But there’s a secret step I’m going to divulge. When you’re trying to fool yourself into thinking you’ve got a command of portion control, go with that leftover container that is just a little too small. You get 3 more hasty spoonfuls. Waste not want not.
This is a food post, but we’re going to segue into a little music. And that makes sense. Food should be accompanied by good company, conversation, and music. Or silence and a book.
I pressed on with Lucifer despite the casual treatment of police violence and the police code of silence. In the show’s defense, I think they wanted the audience to pick up on that while also conveniently ensuring that all of the characters in the show weren’t in jail. One of the episodes features Yaz’s (Yazoo) Only You. I hadn’t heard that in years, and I’d forgotten how much I like that song and the band. I had to look them up. Alison Moyet and Vince Clarke. Two years (almost) of amazing music. Vince Clarke had left Depeche Mode and replied to an ad…an ad…for Yaz. Clarke went on to form Erasure.
I’ve been listening to Yaz, Depeche Mode, and Erasure tonight. It has nothing to do with this post really, except for the title. You’ve heard of dad jokes? This is single dude in a hot apartment blogging at the world’s end jokes. I just need a violin and some narcissism.
Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love
Can you hear me
Came back only yesterday
I’m moving further away
Want you near me
All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
French omelettes. I’ve discussed them before. I’m obsessed. I’ve always loved eggs, but I’ve never liked omelettes. At least not American omelettes. I want the omelettes and beer that The Narrator (Somerset Maugham) and Larry ate in Paris in The Razor’s Edge.
The Denny’s / IHOP omelettes are a Freggenstein, an abomination. A tub of butter and a gluttonous combination of mushrooms, peppers, onions, and something they claim is cheese, all weighing in at 8 pounds. Woke up in the zombie apocalypse? Devour that thing if it’s still hot. If there’s still hope, don’t go near that monstrosity. But wait, there’s a waiver to that – Beth’s Café. A friend wrote about Beth’s Café recently, and I said shit. It’s a Seattle icon, and I’ve been procrastinating on getting there, and I fear that breakfast has sailed.
The French omelette. I think they’re a bit more nuanced. My kitchen skills are not nuanced. Flame on, flame off. Bang a bunch of pots and pans. Drop some butter on the floor. But I’m trying. And in so doing, I’ve found a wonderful tutorial. Bill Buford’s “Mastering the Art of Making a French Omelette”. You may not have any interest in omelettes, but I recommend reading this and watching the video. Buford spent five years in Lyon learning about French cooking, and in this video he and his twin sons show you some things he learned. It’s fantastic.
My version has a long way to go. I woke up early today and wanted to try it. I’m usually a two eggs max person, but I had three eggs staring at me from the container. Home Econ – I wasn’t sure when I’d fry up that third egg, so I chose gluttony.
I think I’m letting the pan get too hot. Buford’s butter sings, mine screams as it’s tossed into a ceramic volcano. At the 1/2 way mark my omelette is still on the right side of catastrophe. Today I chucked in a little spinach and…THE CHIVES! So there it is, the circle back. I wanted to write herbes in a blog post, so when I was at the grocery store I picked up something green from those small containers. I couldn’t remember what Buford recommended, though, so I just steered clear of the basil and oregano. They strike me as more appropriate for pizza.
Things start to go wrong at the flip. Parts of it start breaking, and I struggle with that last flip. I don’t think the French restaurants will be calling soon, but my omelettes taste ok to me.
TB and Suzie – I’d love to hear your thoughts on Buford’s video/method. (Suzie, you and Carl could probably split one with a side of fruit.)
I’ll finish with some music. Do yourself a favor. Listen to O Cessate di Piagarmi. Spotify tells me it’s by Alessandro Scarlatti. It is beautiful.
Please stop bothering me
Or let me die