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.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, June 6, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
IV: In Which I Start to Wonder Just What's Up With This Whole Mid-40's Thing
Friends naturally ask me how I'm doing these days, and I typically respond that I'm doing fine, considering. If this isn't sufficient information, I add that it could be much worse; I could be experiencing exactly what I'm experiencing now, but in Darfur.
In fact, I am learning that I hardly need look to so exotic or tragic a locale to demonstrate the relative greenness of my grass. All I need do is consider the burdens borne by so many of my peers. Several have recently endured business catastrophes they could not possibly have anticipated and which nearly left them homeless. Several others are coping with debilitating mental illness, either their own or a family member's. Not a few, like myself, are currently looking for work, but much more desperately as they have greater financial obligations and/or fewer financial assets. Some are experiencing breakups like mine, but worse; the relationships are of longer endurance, the bonds harder to sever because children are involved, the splits considerably more acrimonious. Worst of all, a friend whose recent painful divorce was softened only by his devotion to his 17-year-old daughter lost her; she hydroplaned into a tree on her way home from church and was killed instantly, according to the state troopers.
We are all in our mid- to late-40's, a fact that leaves me wondering whether this is the common fate of people my age. Are we tragedy magnets? Does karma work in predictable cycles?
And then a worse thought occurs to me: that this is the beginning of a part of my life in which my friends and I will always be dealing with these sorts of thing, that it'll be nothing but illness and destitution and disappointment and heartbreak from here on out until we all at last shake off this mortal coil, likely with big smiles on our faces. Thank God that's done with, will be our collective last thought.
And of course, it could always be worse. We could all be having these heartbreaking experiences in Darfur.
So there you go.
In fact, I am learning that I hardly need look to so exotic or tragic a locale to demonstrate the relative greenness of my grass. All I need do is consider the burdens borne by so many of my peers. Several have recently endured business catastrophes they could not possibly have anticipated and which nearly left them homeless. Several others are coping with debilitating mental illness, either their own or a family member's. Not a few, like myself, are currently looking for work, but much more desperately as they have greater financial obligations and/or fewer financial assets. Some are experiencing breakups like mine, but worse; the relationships are of longer endurance, the bonds harder to sever because children are involved, the splits considerably more acrimonious. Worst of all, a friend whose recent painful divorce was softened only by his devotion to his 17-year-old daughter lost her; she hydroplaned into a tree on her way home from church and was killed instantly, according to the state troopers.
We are all in our mid- to late-40's, a fact that leaves me wondering whether this is the common fate of people my age. Are we tragedy magnets? Does karma work in predictable cycles?
And then a worse thought occurs to me: that this is the beginning of a part of my life in which my friends and I will always be dealing with these sorts of thing, that it'll be nothing but illness and destitution and disappointment and heartbreak from here on out until we all at last shake off this mortal coil, likely with big smiles on our faces. Thank God that's done with, will be our collective last thought.
And of course, it could always be worse. We could all be having these heartbreaking experiences in Darfur.
So there you go.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
III: In Which I Attack Some Housework Chores Previously Handled by my Future Ex-Wife
To understand what follows, a little background information is necessary.
In February, my future ex-wife and I acknowledged that we were driving each other stark raving bonkers, and we agreed that a trial separation would be a good idea. Some friends offered her their spare room, which she accepted. Since then, the only thing that has changed is that the word 'trial' has been dropped.
Which means that I've been living alone in our house for three months. It's been weird; as my sister reminded me the other day, I haven't lived alone since 1980, and even then it was only for a few months. Life in New York City for the non-fabulous by necessity entails roommates unless you're willing to live in something along the lines of a postage stamp-size studio in Douglaston; I was not. Later, when I relocated to North Carolina, it was with wife already in tow.
Next week, my future ex will be house-sitting/dog-sitting while I'm up in New York for business. This means that I have to get the house ready for her.
Now as I have previously admitted, I was not exactly fastidious during our marriage. My ex was simply better at cleaning house than I was, and like The Dude I am most definitely a lazy man. I even convinced myself that tasks such as laundry were simply too complex for me to master. The human mind is a wondrous thing indeed.
And adaptable to all life situations. For example, here's how confused your thinking gets when reluctant bachelorhood is thrust upon you: It actually crossed my mind these past few days that my cleaning up for my future ex might make her unhappy, that she might react by thinking "Why the hell couldn't he do this while we were still together?" (I often imagine ridiculous and implausible arguments, for some reason. My mind works pretty much this way; the germane section starts at 3:55). And I seriously pondered how thorough a job of cleaning I should do to strike just the right balance; enough to show an effort, but not enough to educe reflection on what a piss-poor effort I'd made throughout our marriage. Fortunately, in the midst of these deliberations I discovered a stainless steel serving-bowl I had "cleaned." It bore ample evidence of the salad served from it, and I immediately realized that I could clean to my heart's delight without fear that my future ex-wife would ever mistake me for an efficient cleaner.
Today's big chore was shampooing the carpets. It's something that has to be done before we show the house anyway, and I figured if I hadn't done it before she arrived she might do it herself, and then I'd feel as though I'd once again left her a housecleaning job that I was perfectly capable of doing myself. I broke out the Bissell (not to be confused with the Bessell) and the instruction manual, hoping that the machine's operation was intuitive, as I am very bad with instruction manuals. (It was, I'm pretty sure; at any rate, the carpets are clean and the machine appears not to be broken.)
I read enough of the manual to learn that I needed to vacuum the carpets first prior to shampooing. I did this with the thoroughness with which I do all cleaning jobs, which is to say I was sure I'd done a great job and subsequently learned otherwise. Then it was time to fire up the Bissell. It's a pretty easy job, just like vacuuming except that you pass over every spot twice; first to dispense soapy water, then to suck it up. The machine makes a happy gurgling noise and the bottom of your socks get pleasingly damp with warm soapy water as you work. All in all, it was not the horrible chore I'd feared. In fact, it was actually quite pleasant.
The task was not without its complications, of course. An inexperienced cleaner, I found myself working on spots over and over in an effort to remove stains that, I eventually realized, were in fact shadows. My inexpert vacuuming evidenced itself in the furballs the Bissell started to cough up with increasing frequency as the job went on. Apparently one of our dogs has learned to shed deep into the carpet; perhaps she is burying the fur to recover in her dotage in case she goes bald. She is now in for a rude surprise, should she live so long.
A piece like this traditionally ends with some sort of gained insight about the ennobling qualities of housework, or about the importance of pulling your own weight in a marriage when it's time to deal with the inevitable drudgeries, or about the occasional miraculous qualities of shadows. Truth be told, though, the only insight I gained today is that I would like to someday be wealthy enough to pay someone else to clean my house. Because then the job would get done right and I'd have nothing to feel bad about.
So there you go.
In February, my future ex-wife and I acknowledged that we were driving each other stark raving bonkers, and we agreed that a trial separation would be a good idea. Some friends offered her their spare room, which she accepted. Since then, the only thing that has changed is that the word 'trial' has been dropped.
Which means that I've been living alone in our house for three months. It's been weird; as my sister reminded me the other day, I haven't lived alone since 1980, and even then it was only for a few months. Life in New York City for the non-fabulous by necessity entails roommates unless you're willing to live in something along the lines of a postage stamp-size studio in Douglaston; I was not. Later, when I relocated to North Carolina, it was with wife already in tow.
Next week, my future ex will be house-sitting/dog-sitting while I'm up in New York for business. This means that I have to get the house ready for her.
Now as I have previously admitted, I was not exactly fastidious during our marriage. My ex was simply better at cleaning house than I was, and like The Dude I am most definitely a lazy man. I even convinced myself that tasks such as laundry were simply too complex for me to master. The human mind is a wondrous thing indeed.
And adaptable to all life situations. For example, here's how confused your thinking gets when reluctant bachelorhood is thrust upon you: It actually crossed my mind these past few days that my cleaning up for my future ex might make her unhappy, that she might react by thinking "Why the hell couldn't he do this while we were still together?" (I often imagine ridiculous and implausible arguments, for some reason. My mind works pretty much this way; the germane section starts at 3:55). And I seriously pondered how thorough a job of cleaning I should do to strike just the right balance; enough to show an effort, but not enough to educe reflection on what a piss-poor effort I'd made throughout our marriage. Fortunately, in the midst of these deliberations I discovered a stainless steel serving-bowl I had "cleaned." It bore ample evidence of the salad served from it, and I immediately realized that I could clean to my heart's delight without fear that my future ex-wife would ever mistake me for an efficient cleaner.
Today's big chore was shampooing the carpets. It's something that has to be done before we show the house anyway, and I figured if I hadn't done it before she arrived she might do it herself, and then I'd feel as though I'd once again left her a housecleaning job that I was perfectly capable of doing myself. I broke out the Bissell (not to be confused with the Bessell) and the instruction manual, hoping that the machine's operation was intuitive, as I am very bad with instruction manuals. (It was, I'm pretty sure; at any rate, the carpets are clean and the machine appears not to be broken.)
I read enough of the manual to learn that I needed to vacuum the carpets first prior to shampooing. I did this with the thoroughness with which I do all cleaning jobs, which is to say I was sure I'd done a great job and subsequently learned otherwise. Then it was time to fire up the Bissell. It's a pretty easy job, just like vacuuming except that you pass over every spot twice; first to dispense soapy water, then to suck it up. The machine makes a happy gurgling noise and the bottom of your socks get pleasingly damp with warm soapy water as you work. All in all, it was not the horrible chore I'd feared. In fact, it was actually quite pleasant.
The task was not without its complications, of course. An inexperienced cleaner, I found myself working on spots over and over in an effort to remove stains that, I eventually realized, were in fact shadows. My inexpert vacuuming evidenced itself in the furballs the Bissell started to cough up with increasing frequency as the job went on. Apparently one of our dogs has learned to shed deep into the carpet; perhaps she is burying the fur to recover in her dotage in case she goes bald. She is now in for a rude surprise, should she live so long.
A piece like this traditionally ends with some sort of gained insight about the ennobling qualities of housework, or about the importance of pulling your own weight in a marriage when it's time to deal with the inevitable drudgeries, or about the occasional miraculous qualities of shadows. Truth be told, though, the only insight I gained today is that I would like to someday be wealthy enough to pay someone else to clean my house. Because then the job would get done right and I'd have nothing to feel bad about.
So there you go.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Food Interlude I: Shawarma
As a married man, I was not much for housework, but I was--and still am--a damned good cook, if I do say so myself (as in fact I just did). I've heard tell of suddenly reluctant bachelors such as I reverting to a diet of Ramen noodles, frozen pizzas, and breakfast cereal. I am determined not to let this happen to me. I enjoy good food too much, for one thing. For another, as I lose more hair and accumulate more wrinkles, I'm going to have to rely increasingly on such assets as my cooking to ensnare the next Mrs. RB. Whenever the fancy strikes, then, I will interrupt this narrative of lifestyle transition to describe something I've recently cooked. It'll go something…. like this.
I had the good fortune to live in New York City for about 20 years. I lived on a writer's wages during that entire time, meaning that I had to find good food for cheap or forego good food altogether. I don't imagine there's a better place in the world to pursue this aim than New York; the world's cuisines await you on street corners, in filthy holes in the wall that you wisely hesitate to enter but eventually enter anyway, and in equally forbidding groceries whose contents must be deciphered through cookbooks and other culinary references, which fortunately are also abundantly available. All you need is the time to explore and the willingness to endure occasional food poisoning.
One favorite stop back then was the kiosk of the self-proclaimed Shawarma King in Greenwich Village. Cognoscenti poo poo the Village, especially the West Village (which is where the Shawarma King reigned), and with good reason: during high-traffic periods it is overrun by the loathed bridge-and-tunnel crowd. The merchants who serve them are typically more contemptuous than solicitous of these customers, and their wares bear the mark of their disdain, not just during peak hours but 24/7. The Shawarma King was different. He understood that with great title comes great responsibility, and he continued to crank out delicious shawarmas even though his clientele mostly couldn't tell the difference. The quality of his product probably put him out of business. May his kiosk rest in peace.
A shawarma is a lamb pita sandwich, by the way. The meat is typically shaved; I prefer to prepare it with larger, kebob-size hunks of meat. Here's how to make one that the Shawarma King might well proclaim delicious.
Get a nice piece of butterflied lamb shoulder or leg of lamb, which will probably weigh about four pounds. Cut it in half, and wrap and freeze half; four pounds of lamb is, or should be, too much meat for one man to eat before it starts to go bad. Trim the fat off the remaining half, then cut the meat into strips roughly the size of a nice New York strip steak. Why cut it up? You're going to grill this meat. The more surface area, the more of that good charred-outside flavor. Also, smaller pieces cook faster, getting you to the dinner table quicker. Could you cut the pieces even smaller? Sure, why not? Knock yourself out.
Season the lamb with salt and pepper. Steep some crushed garlic in olive oil for 10 minutes or so, then brush the oil on the lamb. Refrigerate if you're not going to cook soon, but remember to take the lamb out of the fridge at least an hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat is more likely to stick to the grill.
Also, there must be tzatziki, which is quite easy to make. Line a colander with three thicknesses of paper towels. Dump two cups of plain yogurt on top of the towels. Place the colander over a bowl or pot, cover, and refrigerate for a few hours. The liquid will leach out of the yogurt. Dump the thickened yogurt into a bowl. Peel two cucumbers (or one English cucumber), grate, and squeeze to drain of liquid. Add the grated cucumber to the yogurt. Season with salt and pepper. Press or mince fine one or two cloves of garlic, to taste, and add that as well. Add some fresh dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. Stir. You're done!
We're in the home stretch now. Fire up the grill until it is burn-the-hair-off-your-knuckles hot, then throw on the lamb and get it a-sizzling. Cook beyond medium rare at your own peril. Let the cooked lamb rest for a few minutes; while you're doing that, heat some pitas in a skillet and assemble a simple salad (I love Earth Fare Spring Mix with some diced tomato and Bermuda onion for this purpose). Cut the lamb into kebob-size (stew-size for you heartlanders) chunks, drop some on a hot pita, top with a handful of salad and a generous helping of tzatziki (and a splash of hot sauce if you like), roll it up like a food doober, and eat. This is the kind of sandwich that can disintegrate in your hands, so eating quickly is advised. No problem here; I have been told I eat as though I am afraid someone is about to take my food away any second.
So there you go.
I had the good fortune to live in New York City for about 20 years. I lived on a writer's wages during that entire time, meaning that I had to find good food for cheap or forego good food altogether. I don't imagine there's a better place in the world to pursue this aim than New York; the world's cuisines await you on street corners, in filthy holes in the wall that you wisely hesitate to enter but eventually enter anyway, and in equally forbidding groceries whose contents must be deciphered through cookbooks and other culinary references, which fortunately are also abundantly available. All you need is the time to explore and the willingness to endure occasional food poisoning.
One favorite stop back then was the kiosk of the self-proclaimed Shawarma King in Greenwich Village. Cognoscenti poo poo the Village, especially the West Village (which is where the Shawarma King reigned), and with good reason: during high-traffic periods it is overrun by the loathed bridge-and-tunnel crowd. The merchants who serve them are typically more contemptuous than solicitous of these customers, and their wares bear the mark of their disdain, not just during peak hours but 24/7. The Shawarma King was different. He understood that with great title comes great responsibility, and he continued to crank out delicious shawarmas even though his clientele mostly couldn't tell the difference. The quality of his product probably put him out of business. May his kiosk rest in peace.
A shawarma is a lamb pita sandwich, by the way. The meat is typically shaved; I prefer to prepare it with larger, kebob-size hunks of meat. Here's how to make one that the Shawarma King might well proclaim delicious.
Get a nice piece of butterflied lamb shoulder or leg of lamb, which will probably weigh about four pounds. Cut it in half, and wrap and freeze half; four pounds of lamb is, or should be, too much meat for one man to eat before it starts to go bad. Trim the fat off the remaining half, then cut the meat into strips roughly the size of a nice New York strip steak. Why cut it up? You're going to grill this meat. The more surface area, the more of that good charred-outside flavor. Also, smaller pieces cook faster, getting you to the dinner table quicker. Could you cut the pieces even smaller? Sure, why not? Knock yourself out.
Season the lamb with salt and pepper. Steep some crushed garlic in olive oil for 10 minutes or so, then brush the oil on the lamb. Refrigerate if you're not going to cook soon, but remember to take the lamb out of the fridge at least an hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat is more likely to stick to the grill.
Also, there must be tzatziki, which is quite easy to make. Line a colander with three thicknesses of paper towels. Dump two cups of plain yogurt on top of the towels. Place the colander over a bowl or pot, cover, and refrigerate for a few hours. The liquid will leach out of the yogurt. Dump the thickened yogurt into a bowl. Peel two cucumbers (or one English cucumber), grate, and squeeze to drain of liquid. Add the grated cucumber to the yogurt. Season with salt and pepper. Press or mince fine one or two cloves of garlic, to taste, and add that as well. Add some fresh dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. Stir. You're done!
We're in the home stretch now. Fire up the grill until it is burn-the-hair-off-your-knuckles hot, then throw on the lamb and get it a-sizzling. Cook beyond medium rare at your own peril. Let the cooked lamb rest for a few minutes; while you're doing that, heat some pitas in a skillet and assemble a simple salad (I love Earth Fare Spring Mix with some diced tomato and Bermuda onion for this purpose). Cut the lamb into kebob-size (stew-size for you heartlanders) chunks, drop some on a hot pita, top with a handful of salad and a generous helping of tzatziki (and a splash of hot sauce if you like), roll it up like a food doober, and eat. This is the kind of sandwich that can disintegrate in your hands, so eating quickly is advised. No problem here; I have been told I eat as though I am afraid someone is about to take my food away any second.
So there you go.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
II: In Which I Explain What You Should Not Expect to Find in this Blog
It occurs to me that some readers of this blog may know who I am despite my strenuous efforts to mask my true identity (see my opaque profile page for evidence of said efforts). This occurs to me because I sent emails to them informing them of this blog's existence.
It further occurs to me that some of these same readers might fear what they will find here, that perhaps some of what I write will be so revealing or embarrassing that they may wish with great fervor that they did not know my identity and/or that they had never read The Reluctant Bachelor. Or that they had never met me to begin with.
To which I respond: Fear not; I have no interest in laying bare my deepest, darkest secrets, which by the way are pretty mundane and would not make for good reading anyway. Nor do I intend to write anything that would be embarrassing to my future ex-wife. This blog is not about our failed marriage, nor is it about our breakup, nor is it the lugubrious chronicle of a man's obsession over a lost love. Anything I have to say on any of those subjects will transpire exclusively between me and my therapist, thank you.
Rather, I take as my model the wonderful Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain, a book that is full of astute and profound observations of the human experience, all recounted with delightful wit and without being the slightest bit confessional, self-pitying, or any of those other horrible things that make you want to stop reading and run into the room farthest from the offending text. Yes, I have set the bar high. If my head clips it as I pass below, I will be satisfied.
This blog is about making the transition back to single life. It is about the fact that the last date I went on was with a 24-year old who eventually became my future ex-wife, and that a lot has probably changed since then. It is about the fact that I have suddenly had thrust upon me a bunch of responsibilities I never had before, such as maintaining the house instead of pointing out to, say, my wife that the house needs to be cleaned, or walking the dogs instead of simply mentioning to, oh I don't know, let's say my wife that one of the dogs is jumping at the door. It's about contemplating once again pursuing what one friend refers to as 'the strange,' by which I'm pretty sure he meant women with whom I have not previously been acquainted.
In other words, it's about my new life, not my old one.
So there you go.
It further occurs to me that some of these same readers might fear what they will find here, that perhaps some of what I write will be so revealing or embarrassing that they may wish with great fervor that they did not know my identity and/or that they had never read The Reluctant Bachelor. Or that they had never met me to begin with.
To which I respond: Fear not; I have no interest in laying bare my deepest, darkest secrets, which by the way are pretty mundane and would not make for good reading anyway. Nor do I intend to write anything that would be embarrassing to my future ex-wife. This blog is not about our failed marriage, nor is it about our breakup, nor is it the lugubrious chronicle of a man's obsession over a lost love. Anything I have to say on any of those subjects will transpire exclusively between me and my therapist, thank you.
Rather, I take as my model the wonderful Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain, a book that is full of astute and profound observations of the human experience, all recounted with delightful wit and without being the slightest bit confessional, self-pitying, or any of those other horrible things that make you want to stop reading and run into the room farthest from the offending text. Yes, I have set the bar high. If my head clips it as I pass below, I will be satisfied.
This blog is about making the transition back to single life. It is about the fact that the last date I went on was with a 24-year old who eventually became my future ex-wife, and that a lot has probably changed since then. It is about the fact that I have suddenly had thrust upon me a bunch of responsibilities I never had before, such as maintaining the house instead of pointing out to, say, my wife that the house needs to be cleaned, or walking the dogs instead of simply mentioning to, oh I don't know, let's say my wife that one of the dogs is jumping at the door. It's about contemplating once again pursuing what one friend refers to as 'the strange,' by which I'm pretty sure he meant women with whom I have not previously been acquainted.
In other words, it's about my new life, not my old one.
So there you go.
Monday, May 19, 2008
I: In Which the Dogs and I Adjust to our New Life
In August 2007, the company for which I've worked for 20 years underwent a big management change, the result of years of less-than-stellar financials under the supplanted managers. Soon, predictably, familiar faces started disappearing, creating a vibe like that Twilight Zone episode where the omnipotent kid keeps turning adults into monstrosities whenever they piss him off, and everyone has to pretend that everything is hunky dory. "Jeez, look what you did to the COO. Uh, that was good! Real good!!! Now wish him out to the field, quick."
By December, I too had been shown the door, or, if you prefer, wished out to the field.
December was also when my wife and I finally acknowledged that there was something fundamentally wrong with our marriage. We began marriage counseling, which led to a trial separation, which led to the realization that our marriage was over. We'll be divorced early next year.
The two events are not related, by the way. My wife didn't leave me because I was suddenly an only-nebulously employed writer. I tell you about my downsizing/layoff/shitcanning just to give you some idea of the state of uncertainty in which I now exist. I'm confident that I'll get another job at least as good as the last one, and soon enough.
Finding another wife, though, won't be so easy.
At the age of 47--which suddenly feels much, much older than it did just a few months ago--I am making the transition from married guy to reluctant bachelor. Call me RB. This blog is the story of my new paradigm.
I am not the only one making the transition from life with a female human to life with her absence, by the way. My dogs are along for the ride as well, and I have to say they're dealing with it a whole lot better than I am. I was worried that their adjustment would be difficult, given that my wife was by far the more attentive to them. I have since learned better; dogs live by their own version of The Three Pillars, namely "Eat--Void--Sleep." Anything that accommodates The Pillars is A-OK with them. Anything that interrupts them must be dealt with immediately.
Which no doubt explains why they were so frantic during our months of couples counseling. The previous years had witnessed our slowly drifting apart, but without our acknowledging it and, by and large, while we were cohabiting peacefully if not happily. The dogs were cool with that; if we were plopped down on the couch to drink wine and watch something on TCM, whatever dark clouds were passing through our heads were not their concern. Those final months, however, involved a lot of desperate efforts to reel each other back in, which meant lots of long, emotionally charged conversations. The dogs did not enjoy these any better than we did. If they were capable of articulate thought, it probably would have gone something along these lines: "Look!!!! The food givers are not happy! Perhaps they will stop giving food! We must run around in circles and howl like mad! NOW-OOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" In the end, they didn't care which of us went, but they were certainly glad to see one of us go. Order had been restored, and they were happy.
I'm wondering whether I can learn a lesson from the dogs. They have clearly moved on; our marriage is soooo yesterday to them. I'm not quite there yet.
On the other hand, they also love to roll in dead animals, and smell each others' asses, and eat worms.
So there you go.
By December, I too had been shown the door, or, if you prefer, wished out to the field.
December was also when my wife and I finally acknowledged that there was something fundamentally wrong with our marriage. We began marriage counseling, which led to a trial separation, which led to the realization that our marriage was over. We'll be divorced early next year.
The two events are not related, by the way. My wife didn't leave me because I was suddenly an only-nebulously employed writer. I tell you about my downsizing/layoff/shitcanning just to give you some idea of the state of uncertainty in which I now exist. I'm confident that I'll get another job at least as good as the last one, and soon enough.
Finding another wife, though, won't be so easy.
At the age of 47--which suddenly feels much, much older than it did just a few months ago--I am making the transition from married guy to reluctant bachelor. Call me RB. This blog is the story of my new paradigm.
I am not the only one making the transition from life with a female human to life with her absence, by the way. My dogs are along for the ride as well, and I have to say they're dealing with it a whole lot better than I am. I was worried that their adjustment would be difficult, given that my wife was by far the more attentive to them. I have since learned better; dogs live by their own version of The Three Pillars, namely "Eat--Void--Sleep." Anything that accommodates The Pillars is A-OK with them. Anything that interrupts them must be dealt with immediately.
Which no doubt explains why they were so frantic during our months of couples counseling. The previous years had witnessed our slowly drifting apart, but without our acknowledging it and, by and large, while we were cohabiting peacefully if not happily. The dogs were cool with that; if we were plopped down on the couch to drink wine and watch something on TCM, whatever dark clouds were passing through our heads were not their concern. Those final months, however, involved a lot of desperate efforts to reel each other back in, which meant lots of long, emotionally charged conversations. The dogs did not enjoy these any better than we did. If they were capable of articulate thought, it probably would have gone something along these lines: "Look!!!! The food givers are not happy! Perhaps they will stop giving food! We must run around in circles and howl like mad! NOW-OOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" In the end, they didn't care which of us went, but they were certainly glad to see one of us go. Order had been restored, and they were happy.
I'm wondering whether I can learn a lesson from the dogs. They have clearly moved on; our marriage is soooo yesterday to them. I'm not quite there yet.
On the other hand, they also love to roll in dead animals, and smell each others' asses, and eat worms.
So there you go.
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