IX: In Which I Recount A Strange Dream I Recently Had

I am not a vivid dreamer, and what dreams I have usually evaporate from my memory within seconds of my awakening.

But there is something about dramatic life change that sharpens the memory. I know this because I recall events that occurred when I was two or three years old. Now, no one remembers things that happened at that age, right? Except I know I remember them because I know they happened in Thailand, where my father was stationed with the Army until I was three years old. And I know I'm not making these memories up because my mother has confirmed them, just as she has confirmed my description of the house and street where we lived and the maids we employed. Moving from Bangkok to Fort Knox, KY could fairly be described as dramatic--as well as a huge comedown (not my last, as it turns out)--and I'm sure that that's what burned those memories of Thailand into my brain.

So seeing that I've recently undergone a dramatic life change, it's probably no surprise that I am suddenly remembering dreams. My memory, like my emotional life, has received an unexpected squeeze to the nads, and it has been quickened.

When the dream begins, I am a contestant on a game show. The game is called Tom Waits or Cookie Monster? Contestants listen to songs, then try to guess whether the singer is Tom Waits or Cookie Monster. Intuitively, I understand that certain fundamental principles apply:

•song includes profanity = Tom Waits
•song includes improperly used pronouns = Cookie Monster
•song mentions death = Tom Waits
•song mentions cookies = Cookie Monster
•song sounds like Kurt Weill = probably Tom Waits
•song sounds like a children's song = probably Cookie Monster

Despite these insights, I lose. I am tripped up by a recording of Cookie Monster performing in The Threepenny Opera. For reasons I cannot divine, I fail to recognize the following context clues in Cookie Monster's performance of "Mack the Knife":

Oh the shark bite
With him teeth, dear
And him keep them
Pearly white
Me like cookie
Me like cookie
Me like cookie
Mack the Knife!!!

Suddenly the landscape changes, and I am standing on a street corner. A woman in a Hummer drives straight into the back of a delivery truck; she is talking on her cell phone and cannot be bothered to pay attention to her driving. She immediately backs up, turns hard left, and drives around the truck, speeding away from the accident. The truck driver takes off after her and a long high-speed chase ensues. Even though I am stationary and the vehicles drive a great distance, I somehow see the entire chain of events transpire. The trucker eventually passes and cuts off the woman in the Hummer, then gets out of his truck to berate her. The woman is indignant; she contends that she is not at fault, as though by adamantly insisting she is in the right she can somehow validate her preposterous argument. She reminds me of the current inhabitants of the White House.

The scene changes abruptly again, and I am standing in the sort of outdoor mall one sees in front of a great public construction; the place reminds me of the entryway to the Baltimore Aquarium. My future ex-wife appears. She is wearing heels so high that she stands over six feet tall, and she towers over me. "Why the heels?" I ask, and she responds, "If I make myself look good, the suitors will come." I am depressed to realize that she is already looking for a new mate. Immediately I am surrounded by old friends from high school and college, and I am torn. Part of me wants their sympathy, but an equal part is ashamed that my marriage has failed and that they now know of the failure. I turn to talk to my future ex-wife but she excuses herself. She says she is late for the estate sale of Beowulf's uncle, whose name is Lutefisk, and I realize that she would rather hang out with D&D nerds than with me. This too makes me feel bad.

I turn to greet my old friends but I suddenly awaken. My mouth is dry, my throat is sore, and I realize that I am awake in that anxious way that precludes falling back asleep any time soon. I am too tired to concentrate on a book, though, so I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, listening to my dogs snore and envying them. I hear their feet skittering and I realize they are dreaming of chasing small critters, and catching and eating them. One of them blows a tremendous fart of self-satisfaction; she has caught a rabbit, no doubt. I am slightly nauseated, but also a little hungry.

What does it all mean? That I should avoid rich foods and tall glasses of Calvados before bed, most likely.

So there you go.

Food Interlude III: Olive Oil

As far as I am concerned, there are two fundamental types of cuisine: simple, and complex. I love preparing both, but for the sake of convenience and also because it seems foolish to expend tremendous amounts of effort on a meal for one--especially when that one is prone to devouring dinner in a time better measured in seconds than minutes--I typically lean toward simple.

Simple is hardly the same as plain or uninteresting; on the contrary, fabulous food can be prepared using a few easy techniques and a few basic ingredients. These days a typical meal includes a mixed green salad, something off the grill, and, if I'm feeling particularly esurient, some rice and maybe even some sautéed greens. My culinary arsenal for these meals rarely consists of more than salt, pepper, maybe a little butter, something acetic--either a nice vinegar or lemon juice--and olive oil.

Of these, olive oil is by far most important and should be treated accordingly. I know that many people are put off by the cost of a quality bottle of olive oil, but they shouldn't be. Good olive oil is used sparingly, and as a result a 750 ml bottle can last six months or more. The secret is to keep a lower-quality extra virgin olive oil on hand for cooking--I use Costco's house brand, Kirkland, which costs maybe $10 for a half-gallon, and it works just fine--and to save the best olive oil for finishing dishes, for salad dressings, and for dips. Cooking robs quality olive oils of their special properties anyway, or so I've been told (and for economic reasons I choose to believe it without further question), so there's no point in wasting it on a sauté or to brown meat. Wait until the dish is nearly done, then hit it with a little zetz of the good stuff.

My favorite olive oil is Novello di Macina. which means (roughly, my Italian is atroce) "new from the grinder," a well-earned designation given that the olives are ground within twelve hours of harvest. Novello only appears on shelves once a year (usually in December); it the first product of that year's olive harvest, making it the olive oil equivalent of Beaujolais Nouveau, except that Beaujolais Nouveau is vile cat piss I wouldn't serve my worst enemy and Novello di Macina is a product to be cherished and enjoyed daily. No small difference there.

Novello is an unfiltered oil, cloudy and yellow-green. It has a big, fruity flavor and a rich texture that coats the tongue. There's nothing subtle about it; it's what I imagine foodies mean when they describe a flavor as "rustic." I buy two bottles of the stuff as soon as it hits the shelves, and that usually carries me through the year. That's $50 well invested, as far as I'm concerned. It is fabulous in salads and a great finish to pasta dishes, and it is wonderful in skordalia, baba ganoush, hummus, and taramasalata, although I must admit it is painful to use so much good olive oil on a single dish. If you come to my house and these items are served, we damn well better finish them or there will be tears shed during clean up. Mine, mostly.

Store olive oil in a cool dark place and it will last until you have used it all up. Open up the bottle and take a whiff when you're feeling blue; it will make you feel better and will get your mind working on dinner plans, both good things. Give nice bottles of olive oil as gifts; if the recipients aren't appreciative, you know they are not worthy of your friendship, or anyone's. I've heard that olive oil is good for you; I'm glad, but I don't care. Tofu is good for you and I won't touch the stuff, because it tastes like nothing. If you told me daily olive oil consumption would take five years off my life, I'd probably give it some thought, then rationalize that those years are coming off the end when I'll (presumably, hopefully (sic)) be very old and that that day is probably a long way off anyway, and that I am hungry right now. And then I would dress my salad with my good olive oil.

One final note: do not come to my house--or even speak to me, ever, for that matter--if you refer to extra virgin olive oil as 'E V O O.' First, the whole point of an abbreviation is to abbreviate. Since it takes exactly as long to say 'E V O O' as to say 'extra virgin olive oil,' the former serves no useful purpose. The only possible remaining purpose for the term is to be precious, and that is a good way to get your neck wrung around here. Second, the term 'E V O O' signifies at the very least a tolerance for Rachel Ray, and we'll have none of that here. My kitchen is barred to Satan's minions, most particularly to those who perceive themselves as much, much more adorable than they actually are. Her fame is a compelling piece of evidence in the case against the existence of God. I am too gentle a soul to wish bodily harm upon anyone but a despot, but if Rachel Ray were to come down with an inconvenient but not painful case of laryngitis from which she never recovered, I would probably be cool with that.

So there you go.

VIII: In Which I Go Shopping For Girls

Last night two very dear old friends and I had dinner at Otto, Mario Batali's Greenwich Village pizzeria. The place was packed when we arrived, so we went to the bar to drink wine and await our turn at a table. Nearly everyone else in the place was very young and very attractive--I was surprised that we were allowed to stay, honestly--so there was ample opportunity to look at pretty girls. Because I am both male and alive, this is an activity I very much enjoy.

I harbor no illusions about my chances with gorgeous twenty-somethings. Back home in North Carolina, these girls all call me 'sir' and look at me the way one looks at one's schoolteacher or at an unremarkable customer one is waiting on. When I indulge in this sort of ogling, the inevitable soundtrack in my mind is The Coasters' "Shopping For Clothes," mostly for the final line: "That's one suit you'll never own." In my mind's eye, Will "Dub" Jones wags his finger at me disapprovingly as that line plays over and over.

Which is fine by me. I never had much luck with twenty-somethings the first go around, and that was way back when we shared approximate frames of reference on music, movies, life goals, etc. My final foray at a gorgeous twenty-something was with my future ex-wife, who was 24 when I met her; that effort was considerably more successful than those that preceded it, but nonetheless here I am, a reluctant bachelor.

Why worry about the age of potential matches? As I consider--slowly, very slowly--the prospect of reentering the dating world, why not cast my net wide and see what I can drag ashore? Because when you sign up for online dating services, setting a target age range for potential dates is one of the many millions of data you must enter before you get to look at said potential dates. My application to college wasn't as thorough as some of the questionnaires you must complete to begin your dating adventures at such sites at match.com or eharmony.com.

Now, to be clear: I have not yet paid to join an online dating service, nor am I likely to any time soon. I have, however, created free profiles on several so that I may look to see who out there is single, looking for someone like myself, and in possession of a complementary set of genitalia. I call this activity "shopping for girls." It is the Internet equivalent of standing at the bar at Otto.

You can be as particular or as catholic as you please when shopping for girls. Want a girl who earns at least $150,000 a year? That's where you set your income floor. Want a girl who has a slender or athletic build? Eliminate all who list their body types as 'a few pounds overweight' or 'curvaceous.' Combine these qualities into comprehensive searches. Save as many searches as you please--you can title the search above 'Skinny and Rich' or 'Meal Ticket, Cheap to Feed' or anything else for that matter--and scroll through your search results as often as you like. In virtual space, no one can see you ogle.

Nearly all user profiles include at least one, and usually several, photographs. Some of the photos are more current than others, one suspects. It is usually impossible to tell who is practicing deceptive advertising on these sites until you meet them, of course, but occasionally the photos include giveaways; a "Dole for President" campaign button, for instance, or a Seattle Pilots baseball jersey. Some women have clearly used photo-editing programs to enhance their images, mostly to blur out wrinkles and other imperfections. I suppose such women are hoping to ensnare a mate with a bad case of glaucoma.

Be prepared for a few other shocks. Women definitely have a different understanding of body type classifications than I do, I have learned. Some who describe themselves as 'skinny' or 'proportional' look shockingly like fullbacks. Likewise, some who reportedly earn at least $150,000 a year appear to be sitting on the porch of a singlewide drinking a PBR. Is this an investment property, maybe? Is your singlewide located in the Virgin Islands, perhaps? I am confused, but still intrigued.

The privileges afforded freeloaders on these sites are few, just enough to convince you that it is worth $40 per month to enjoy the full complement of prerogatives. Freebies usually include some variation of 'winking,' a quick text-free message that lets another user know you are either interested in her or that you have something in your virtual eye. A wink is as far as you can go for free, however; if your intended responds with anything but a wink you'll never know, and if she winks back at you, you'll know that she did but not her name or email address or phone number or any other information that would be useful in procuring a date. For that, you must pay the money.

Paying users, on the other hand, can look at other users' profiles, send emails, post on bulletin boards, and generally have free run of the place. Freeloaders like myself will know that a paying user has been checking them out and trying to reach them by email but will not be able to retrieve the checker-outer's identity or message until they have paid for the full service. Watch those irretrievable emails pile up in your mailbox and try not to imagine one of them is from the reincarnation of Myrna Loy, that you are ruining your one shot at marital happiness because you'd prefer to hold on to your forty bucks, you miserable and penurious loser. You deserve to be alone. This is the way these sites work, and I can feel their allure. It doesn't make me want to sign up yet, but it does make me wish I'd gotten into this business; someone is clearly making a killing in the loneliness sector.

One site offers freeloaders an intriguing feature: instant messaging. From my experience, this service is used exclusively by impossibly hot twenty-year old girls who are very, very interested in you even though they have not even looked at your profile, meaning that they know nothing about you but your user name (e.g. Lonely_and_Desperate_6822) and what you look like on your best day from a great distance (i.e. your profile picture, which appears only as a tiny thumbnail to all who do not check out your profile). If you click on these girls' profiles, you will note that their self-descriptions are a little too well written, and if you google the text of those descriptions you will find that it is boilerplate copy used by many impossibly hot young women on many dating sites. Their profiles typically disappear--removed by the site administrators--a few hours after they contact you. I find it odd that these same women who treat me as though I were a kindly old eunuch in the real world flock to me with such enthusiasm in the virtual world. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I strongly suspect anyone responding to these IMs soon finds himself enmeshed in a maze of credit card numbers and pornographic websites.

My inclinations in matters of the heart are fundamentally Luddite. I do not trust computer dating, and the anecdotes I've heard from regular users bear out my trepidations. One friend--the same one who informed me that many men refer to match.com as "snatch.com"--explained that it's all about the second date: "That's when you have sex," he said matter-of-factly, and I flashed back to too many youthful indiscretions when I hopped into bed with someone way too early, only to find that we had nothing in common but physical attraction. And I remembered that the getting in to those relationships was pretty fun and a big boost to the ego, but that the getting out was always far more difficult and traumatic than the getting in was fun, and that in the end the ego boost had been more than negated by feelings of self-reproach and self-loathing.

I also recall how the feeling of virtue that comes from abstaining from such encounters is eventually and inevitably overwhelmed by loneliness, by the desire to be desired, and by the need to be intimate with someone, even if that someone is a relative stranger with whom you probably have nothing in common. These aren't problems endemic to computer dating; they're problems endemic to being human, and I'll be navigating them again soon enough or spending the rest of my life alone, match.com or no.

So there you go.

VII: In Which I Suffer the Consequences of Not Acting My Age

About a month ago some friends asked me to join their softball team. My immediate inclination was to say no. I am 47 years old, I have a surgically repaired knee, and I hadn't swung a baseball bat in probably five years. Worst of all, the shoulder of my throwing arm pops and crackles whenever I make an overhand motion. I need to soft toss for ten or 15 minutes before I can throw a ball with any force at all; any effort to shorten this warm-up period triggers a most effective rebuke in the form of very sharp pain. 15 minutes is a lot longer than I spend warming up to play golf, a sport I'm actually serious about. So there were many compelling arguments against softball.

My friends were insistent, though, and I was reluctant to use my age and decrepitude as excuses to avoid activity. Here in the early stages of Reluctant Bachelorhood I am particularly susceptible to the feeling that I am old, stultifyingly old, unlovably old, olde with an 'e,' that's how old I feel sometimes when I'm in the mood to, and it's an inclination I am determined to fight. A husband who spends a lot of time feeling sorry for himself is a nuisance; a single man who spends a lot of time feeling sorry for himself is a lonely nuisance, and deservedly so. So I said yes, dug out my cleats and glove, and began projecting a mental highlights reel of my future softball accomplishments. In most my play was uncannily like Brooks Robinson's.

Our first game was three weeks ago. I was assigned the un-Brooks Robinson-esque position of pitcher and did fairly well at it too, at least until the sixth inning when I suddenly lost track of home plate and started walking everyone. My exploits at the plate were less satisfying. I quickly discovered that after a five-year layoff I was completely incapable of resisting any pitch. I swung at a pitch that hit me. I swung at another so far outside that I was called out for stepping out of the batter's box to take a swing. I managed a solid single my first time up, but by the second time around the hole in my game was apparent and the pitcher wisely threw everything very, very far from the plate. I tapped out weakly once and struck out in my final plate appearance.

The next morning I awoke to a feeling I have not had in a long, long time. I felt as though someone had sneaked into my bedroom overnight and had somehow managed to beat me all about the body with a large sack of oranges without, miraculously, awakening me. There was no spot on my body that wasn't sore. The bottoms of my feet were sore, for God's sake. How the hell does that happen? Oh yeah. I'm 47 and should not be playing softball. That's how.

Even so, I showed up for our next game, which was this past Sunday. Once again I took my spot on the mound, and this time I pitched even better. I actually felt comfortable pitching, a distinct difference from my first effort. As comfortable as I could, that is, given the injury I sustained in the second inning, when I jammed my heel badly trying to beat out an infield grounder. I knew something had gone horribly wrong the minute I reached first base because I was unable to put any weight on the back half of my right foot without immediately regretting having done so. I was able to finish the game on one and a half feet, but by game's end I could tell I was in for an uncomfortable week ahead.

Because I had spent the previous week away on business and because, as previously noted, I am fanatical about golf, I had scheduled tee times for Monday and Tuesday. Both were completely out of the question; the idea of placing the better part of my body weight on my right foot, as I would have to every time I took a backswing, was quite simply ridiculous. I couldn't even walk my dogs more than 50 yards from my front door for fear that I wouldn't be able to make it back home. I was suffering the consequences of not conceding my age, and I was in a lot of pain.

And it wasn't over yet. Today I learned that I have the opportunity to play a much celebrated, very exclusive golf course in two days. Thanks to circumstances that include my injury, I haven't been able to pick up a golf club in several weeks, so my game will certainly be a lot rustier than I'd like. But it gets worse: this course requires all players to walk the course. Normally that'd be my strong preference anyway, but here I am nearly a week out from my injury and walking is still a struggle. Even with a caddie, it'll be a tough go.

So am I going to beg off this golf outing? Hell no! And, as any serious golfer will tell you, this has nothing to do with some foolish delusion of youthfulness. No, this is not the softball paradigm raising its ugly head once again. This is because a true golfer simply never says no when he gets the opportunity to play a great golf course. Gale force winds? Pshaw. Hailstones the size of bowling balls? We'll take umbrellas. A heel that screams bloody murder whenever you put weight on it? A little Alleve, some Dr. Scholls Gel inserts, maybe a hit off the brandy bottle, then point me toward tee box number one. A man's got to have his priorities. There's stupid pain and there's necessary pain. It took a softball misadventure to teach me, but now I know the difference.

So there you go.

VI: In Which the Ramifications of a Bad Haircut are Explored

The last time I got my hair cut I had it hacked pretty short. As a result, the hair on top of my head started to grow straight up so that it looked like a long crew cut. Later, the cut took on an Elvis Costello-ish aspect, which wasn't too bad. When it finally reached the Eraserhead stage, I figured it was time for another haircut. That was just about a week ago.

On my way to the barber, I decided to have the back and sides cut short but to leave the front longer. I wanted it to hang down in front as it did when I was younger. I guess I was hoping to effect a more youthful look, one in keeping with my new status as man-who-may-someday-soon-be-back-on-the-prowl-for-hotties. I had no precise idea of how I wanted the resulting haircut to look, but figured I could leave that in the hands of the capable professional who was about to cut my hair.

Now, when it comes to matters tonsorial, I am not exactly a spendthrift. On the contrary, to me a haircut is about the same as getting your lawn mowed, with your head in place of the lawn. True, a haircut requires a bit more precision, but then again mowing a lawn requires covering a lot more real estate, so to me that looks like a wash. I figure neither service should cost more than $15, which is why I go to MasterCuts.

I've found a few ladies at the local MasterCuts who do a pretty good job on my hair, but as someone who only goes for a haircut every three months, I've never bothered to learn their schedules. An appointment is out of the question; for me, a haircut is strictly an impulse move, something to be done on the morning I wake up and say, "Dear God, what the hell happened to my head overnight? I need a haircut RIGHT NOW." So it's a crapshoot as to who winds up cutting my hair.

None of my favorites awaited me, alas. The sole stylist available that morning was a young girl I'd never seen before; she was hard at work on an old man's head when I arrived. Despite the man's dearth of hair, she informed me she'd be working on him for another 30 minutes, which I should have taken as a portent. I did not; I signed in and took a brief stroll around the mall, returning 20 minutes later to enjoy an ancient issue of ESPN: The Magazine--the Giants have no chance against the Patriots in the Super Bowl, in case you were wondering--while she finished working on Mr. Magoo.

When my turn arrived, I sat in the chair and we discussed strategies for assaying my head. Then she applied a number 8 razor to the back and sides, the part of the haircut that is exactly like mowing a lawn. She observed approvingly that I had "a lot of salt and pepper going on" in this cranial region, and I felt old. "Ah well, at least I have hair, ha ha ha ha ha hahahaha" I responded with feigned cheerfulness, and I suspected she was considering whether to inform me just where my hair was starting to thin. Later she noted that my previous haircut had been pretty bad, another portent seeing as I'd thought the last cut was just fine.

Her conversation was not restricted to hair and haircutting. She was quite excited about Barack Obama's candidacy, as am I. She opined that "I really think he'll help the economy, because he's, you know, so positive," and my head started to hurt a little bit. I considered telling her that Obama was my college classmate--which is true, by the way--but I realized how I'd react if I were she and some customer in a Durham barbershop told me he'd gone to college with the man who may be the next president of the United States. "You're totally full of shit," would be my first reaction, followed quickly by "This old fart's hitting on me!" So I kept this information close.

By now she had made her way to the top of my head and was working deliberately, focusing an uncomfortable amount of attention on each hair. I now understood why she had had Magoo and his several dozen hairs in the chair for a half an hour. Eventually, though, she was satisfied enough with her work to ask my opinion. "What do you think?" she asked, a question that always induces panic, as I'm no good at quick judgments. Whether it's a barber asking me whether I like my haircut or a waiter asking me whether I like the wine, I apply the same strategy; I wait long enough to create the illusion of careful consideration, then I smile and say "It's fine!" Except that this was not fine. Even I could tell that.

My next reaction was to do what guys do to bad haircuts: I ran my hands through it, trying to get it to look less like the sculpted monstrosity it was and more like it will look when I am tending it without any assistance. Several thousand cowlicks sprouted. "No no no!" she said while running to the product table. "You need this. It's what guys use. It's [name of hair product that went in one ear and immediately out the other]." She applied two large palmfuls of the gunk to the top of my head, then combed my hair down flat. "How's that?" she asked. I look like Hitler, I thought, but kept it to myself. "It's fine!" I replied, grateful for my lack of a Chaplin moustache.

I paid and left, thinking crazy thoughts. Maybe I can fix this myself, was my first instinct. Maybe it'll look better after a shower and shampoo was my next, more reasonable thought, and I headed straight home. On the way back, I remembered that I'd had plenty of lousy haircuts in the past but that they hadn't bothered me a bit. "It'll grow back," I'd say, then joke that hell, I was married anyway, it didn't really make a difference how I looked any more. One of the great comforts of marriage is knowing there is someone waiting for you who will love you even if your haircut makes your head look like a baboon's ass. And I realized that I didn't have that person waiting for me anymore, and I started to feel a little down.

That feeling was driven home in spades yesterday, when my future ex-wife and I met to sign our separation papers. These are legal papers that document the date on which a couple starts living apart; they also contain agreements on the disposition of kids, property, etc. We'd been meaning to sign them for months but something kept coming up to delay the process, so here we were almost four months into our still undocumented separation, which made it feel vaguely illicit. We hadn't seen each other in over two months, and the meeting was predictably awkward, but we muddled through with civility and as much mutual warmth as we could muster. I was struck by how quickly we had transitioned from married couple to acquaintances. I mean, here we were, two people who'd been together every day for 11 years, and yet it felt as though we barely knew each other. And I realized more profoundly than I previously had that our marriage was truly over.

Fortunately, the haircut has settled down and become unhideous; in fact, it looks pretty good, against all odds, so much so that I felt no compunctions whatsoever about meeting friends for drinks last night, not even when I was informed that there would be 'a lot of cute babes there.' Let them gaze upon my speckled melon, I thought; I am comfortable in my own hair. It was a nice diversion after a tough day, but on the way home I allowed myself to think back on my marriage and the many, many good times we had together, and I cried a little bit. And then I realized that it was the first time I'd cried in a couple of months, and that there had been a period when we were in therapy when I cried at least once a day, and I was glad to be back in touch with my sad feelings but even gladder to realize that they are manifesting themselves less frequently as time marches on, and that this trend is certain to continue, just as my hair will keep growing back, at least until it falls out. Time wounds all heels, Nick Lowe points out, and occasionally it accomplishes the inverse as well.

So there you go.

V: In Which I Start to Think About Where I Will Live Next

To a man with neither wife nor job, the prospect of relocating conjures a staggering range of options. With none of the conventional restraints binding me, I can literally move anywhere; Amsterdam or Aukland, Belize or Bangkok, Tuscany or Tuscon, the only restrictions are my willingness to adapt to a new home and my ability to find work when I get there.

And yet, I am pretty much committed to a most prosaic choice: staying in or around Durham, NC, a town I have grown to love over my nine years here. True, this isn't exactly the publishing capital of the world, but then again I've never worked locally anyway; all my work emanates from New York City. The combination of New York wages and a Durham cost of living has allowed me to weather lean work periods in the past. That's a comfortable situation, so I'm loathe to make any change that involves a huge increase in my expenses, as would relocation to any big city in the Northeast (where, sadly, most publishing jobs are). And fortunately, there's a good chance that I'll have a pretty steady gig come September, one that would allow me to live wherever I please. I please Durham, please.

The next big question is whether to stay in my current home or move. "Move" is the obvious answer, for a lot of reasons. First, I don't need a 1650 square-foot house, as I no longer have to worry about giving someone else space. My dogs don't seem to care how much space I give them; in fact, they generally stick close by, especially around meal times, or when they are farty and want to share, which apparently is whenever they are farty. Second, this is the house where our marriage went kaplooie, so being here doesn't exactly inspire cheery thoughts. Furthermore, my future ex-wife did the decorating, creating an even more constant reminder of her and our failed marriage. All I need is "The Grand Tour" playing in the background to complete the picture; thanks, no. Finally, staying here means I'd have to buy out my wife's half of the house, meaning we'd have to agree on a fair price. Anyone who has had to negotiate with a future ex will understand my saying that I'd much prefer to let the market make that decision for us. Our negotiations have largely been amicable, but they've still left me very much wanting a couple of stiff ones when they were over, and I'm sure she feels the same way.

So move it is. For the past few weeks I've deluded myself that moving would be easy as pie. I convinced myself--on the basis of no evidence whatsoever--that selling the house myself would be no problem and that there is absolutely no need to get a realtor involved. I've also searched the real estate listings online and found quite a few cottages and bungalows in my price range in what appeared to be good neighborhoods.

Yesterday was reality check day. First, I went to the library and checked out several books on house selling. It is not so easy as I had hoped, turns out. Apparently, banks and the government and all other sorts of folks get involved in a house sale, and they are quite particular about what needs to be done, and when. I still think I can do it--heck, my future ex and I bought our current house from the owners without involving a realtor--but I also now realize this is going to be labor intensive. And that's assuming I can get buyers' attention in the first place; I won't be able to get an MLS number, so my house won't be listed on any of the most popular real estate sites. I'll start with an ad at craigslist and see whether that gets us anywhere.

One delusion down, one to go. It was time to take a look at all the houses that had looked so good at realtor.com. All I did yesterday was view them from the outside, but that was enough to eliminate most. One was in a neighborhood with many, many "House for Rent" signs, which I took as a bad omen. Several others were on lots that appeared to be slightly smaller than the foundations of the houses themselves. On the plus side, that eliminates the need for a lawn mower; a scissors would suffice. On the negative side, my neighbors would practically be my roommates. I need more privacy than that. Yet another house was located on a street that, I subsequently learned, was notorious for gang activity. Now, there are many different kinds of activities. Softball is an activity, for instance. Drug dealing and murder are also activities. Sadly, gangs are not so big on the former and are quite keen on the latter two. It appears as though I need to rethink my price range.

My trip yesterday was a bit discouraging, but it did yield some valuable insights. From now on, whenever I see a photo of a house that is in extremely tight close up, I will know it is because the house next door is six inches away and the real estate agent doesn't want me to know this. Does he think I won't realize it when I come to view the house? "Jeez, that wasn't in the picture! Ah, well, then, it'll probably be gone tomorrow. I'll take it!!" Second, one should be suspicious of real estate ads that don't include pictures of the backyard. It probably indicates that the backyard is either a (a) swamp, (b) landfill, or (c) operational abattoir. Finally, beware of ads that tell you a property is "practically" in the neighborhood in which you want to live. I first encountered this ruse in New York City; "Come live in a refrigerator box along the Gowanus Canal. It's practically Park Slope!" The same principle applies in Durham, where neighborhoods can go from livable to die-able very quickly. Caveat emptor.

After readjusting my expectations, I found an online ad for the perfect home this morning. It had only listed the day before, so I called the realtor to arrange a showing, only to find out that the house had already sold. In the future, I must remember to inquire about the good houses before they go on sale. Of course, that will require my going door-to-door in every Durham neighborhood I'd like to live in and asking folks whether they're planning on selling their homes anytime soon.

That'd give me something to do until that steady gig arrives in September, I suppose.

So there you go.

Food Interlude II: Pancetta

I am Jewish, more or less. Let me explain. My parents are Jewish, and I self-identify as a Jew, but it's a cultural thing, not a matter of faith. Which is to say: I know and gladly accept that my being a Jew defines at least in part who I am to both casual and close acquaintances; I take pride in my people's history, in a legacy that includes Albert Einstein and Bob Dylan and Rosa Luxembourg and Hank Greenberg and Mickey Katz and of course the Marx Brothers, and Jesus too for that matter; I like to attend and even host the occasional Seder; and I believe my Jewish-ness entitles me to tell offensive Jewish jokes without feeling any guilt whatsoever and to judge definitively the quality of any bagel.

But I am not a practicing Jew. I do not believe in the God of the Holy Scripture (Old Testament to you goyim out there) and I only obey those Biblical edicts that I am compelled to obey either by conscience or by American law. This means that I won't murder or bow to an idol but that I feel no need to set aside a portion of dough or the first sheering of a sheep for a Cohen. If I don't roll on Shabbas (see 1:25), it's only because I don't particularly care to roll.

And, I adamantly do not believe in a God who would prohibit us from eating pork. Any God so cruel is no God I want to have anything to do with. Have you had pork? If you have, you know where I am going with this. Pork is delicious. It makes beef taste like chicken and chicken taste like… oh, I don’t know, rabbit? Whatever. It is good, is the point I'm trying to make. Many of the best dishes in the world involve pork, including most of the 'vegetable' sides offered on the Southern table of my adoptive homeland. Why would God make an animal so delicious and then tell us not to eat it? Next you will be telling me God doesn't want us to have sex. It makes about as much sense.

Pork is a wonderfully versatile meat. Its different cuts collectively provide a surprisingly varied flavor palette. Many are equally amenable to grilling, roasting, braising, stewing, or pan searing. I don't think any meat takes better to curing or smoking. As an added plus, my adoptive home state of North Carolina raises lots and lots of pork. Delicious locally and sustainably raised pork is bountiful at my favorite farmers' markets.

Pancetta, sadly, is not; it is still regarded as a boutique meat product here (and nearly everywhere else outside Italy, truth be told) and so must be purchased from a specialty vendor. Pancetta is made from pork belly and side, which is why some people refer to it as 'Italian bacon.' Because it is spiced and cured rather than smoked, however, it tastes nothing like conventional American bacon. No, it tastes much, much better, if you can imagine such a thing. You will usually find it at the deli counter. It looks something like a medium-size salami, rolled and wrapped so that its cut end reveals concentric spirals of pink meat and gray-white fat.

Not all pancetta is created equal. My local Whole Foods sells it only prepackaged and sliced thin; this product is to be avoided unless no other option is available. I much prefer to buy it in inch- or half-inch-thick slabs, depending on how much I'm planning to use. This allows me to cut it into a small dice, which to me is the form in which it shines brightest. The counterperson will cut it for you in a slab if you ask nicely but authoritatively. Betray doubt, however, and s/he will probably slice it thin for you, and then you are ruined.

You can use pancetta any way you'd use bacon. Greens especially love pancetta. Heat some olive oil in a stockpot, then add a quarter-pound of diced pancetta and cook it until it browns and crisps. Add two crushed cloves of garlic, and as soon as you smell the garlic cooking add your greens (I like broccoli rabe, chard, or collard greens for this preparation), lower the heat, cover, and cook until the greens are wilted and cooked through. Season with salt and pepper; for collards, I also like to add a splash of red wine vinegar.

Lentils also benefit from pancetta. My favorites are Pardina lentils, which come from Spain; De Puy lentils, from France, are about as good. Cook the lentils in water following the instructions on the package. While they cook, sauté some diced onion in a skillet. As it starts to wilt, add some diced pancetta and a little crushed garlic and, as before, cook until the pancetta is browned and crisped. When the lentils are done, add them to the sauté, stir to mix well, then finish with a little salt and a drizzle of your best olive oil.

Because pancetta is salty and savory, it pairs nicely with sweet ingredients. One of my favorite pasta sauces starts with olive oil, garlic, and pancetta as above. I might add a handful of greens; chard, which is a little bitter, works well. Finally, I'll throw in some peas (frozen works fine). Cook some conchiglie or another small shell-shaped pasta; you want a shape that will scoop up the onion, pancetta, and peas. Add the cooked pasta to the sauce and toss to coat. Taste, then season with salt and pepper. Add a drizzle of that good olive oil if it needs it. Red pepper flakes and grated Parmigiano-Reggiano are nice additions, completing a complex complement of tastes: the salty, savory pancetta; the sweet peas; the bitter chard; the sharp, nutty cheese; the heat of the pepper flakes... damn, I'm making myself hungry just writing this! I prepare this dish all the time, as it is very easy and equally delicious. I'm going to make some right now, in fact.

Best I can recall, I had never tasted pork until I went to college. One day I saw the ham at the cafeteria and thought 'What the hell? Let's give it a shot.' At that same college I read the better part of Plato's and Aristotle's bodies of work. The sad truth: I remember the ham a lot better.

So there you go.