Bent Notes

That was the name of this year’s turkey.  Here is his unveiling. 

The modern-day Democrat party: the perfect confluence of the silly and the totalitarian.  Ditto for the city of Denver, which has a Freedom-Hater mayor.

We’d already told you about the no-fried-food convention edict.  Now the ball caps and fanny packs for volunteers have to be made from organic cotton and made by union labor.  Only one problem:  There are no such things.

From time to time, commenters take BN to task for what is perceived to be stridency and over-the-top label-mongering.  Sorry, but we’re talking about a once-distinguished political party, a major institution in the civic life of the United States of America that has become a corrosive force and a disgrace.  There is nothing to take seriously in any of their unremittingly stupid and childish positions, but there is everything to take seriously about their madness for power.

This is no time to take the ho-hum attitude that “everything runs in cycles.  It’s just statistically the Democrats’ turn to have control of Congress and the White House again.”  If the current crop of Freedom-Haters gets control of both houses of Congress as well as 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, you can bet that they’ll do everything and anything - and I’m not just talking about the normal, at least quasi-legit, channels of shoring up power - to make sure they never again lose control of American life.

Certain types might counter that Republicans also love power and do everything possible to consolidate it and perpetuate it.  Eu contraire.  We have a current president who is a mush-headed Reasonable Gentleman at least as often as he’s anything close to a conservative with a consistent vision. The current GOP prez candidate is even worse.  He’s absolutely pathetic.  And the pork-addicted, principle-deficient Republicans on Capitol Hill are obviously perfectly willing to piss away their control of the agenda, as proven in November 2006.

Which is why I’m not real bullish on the future of my country.  We’re going to be under the thumb of a Marxist machine more concerned with making us eat arugula, ride bicycles and shiver in our little dens of state housing than with freedom, dignity, national security and pleasing God.

In New York, everything is large-scale, including restaurant portions.  I submit as evidence the hot pastrami on rye at Benash Deli at 55th and 7th Avenue.  Also the steamed fish at Bennie’s Thai Cafe, 88 Fulton Street.

Denver caterers gearing up for the FHer convention are trying to provide locally grown, organic, non-fried and reasonably priced eats, but something in that equation is gonna have to give.

Have you ever run a mental inventory on the contents of your refridgerator and realized you had nearly all the ingredients for something very cool?  This morning it occurred to me that i had

- most of a container of romaine

- most of a bunch of spinach

- about half a 4-oz tub of arugula

- about half a 4-oz tub of oregano (already stemmed and chopped due to when I almost used it the other night)

- about half a can of quartered artichoke hearts

- about a third of a jar of pitted calamita olives

and that all I’d need from the store for the ultimate killer salad would be a yellow bell pepper, a red onion, and a salmon filet, which I seasoned with lemon, olive oil, salt and pepper and threw on the grill.  Drizzled a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar over the whole thing and here’s the result.  It was sublime.

James Joyner at Outside the Beltway offers a level-headed perspective on where somewhat-upscale chain restaurants fit into America’s dining life.

A slice of red onion and avocado slices on red-leaf lettuce, with orange-sesame dressing.

Rack of lamb with couscous with toasted slivered almonds, dried currants and diced scallions.  Roasted asparagus.

Can you dig this?  I’ve never cooked lamb before.  What I did was infuse some olive oil with crushed rosemary and garlic.  Brushed that on, sprinkled on a little salt and freshly cracked black pepper.  Slow-roasted for, I don’t know, forty minutes, I guess, and then gave it a couple minutes’ worth of sizzle on the grill.  Kept covered until the guests arrived.

A microbe-level look at the effects of double-dipping.

Dig what the Capitol Hill cafeteria is dishing out - excuse me, plating -  in the age of San Fran Nan.

6:20 AM - I’ve had Randy in the oven for about forty minutes.  (I try to choose gender-generic names for holiday birds, since I usually can’t determinte whether they’re toms or hens.)  Got up at 4:20, went down to the salon and got all the dressing and stuffing I made yesterday, the pies, and Randy out of the fridge there.

For the second year, I’ve made pancetta, prune and chestnut stuffing.  I got the recipe out of the November 2006 issue of Gourmet.  It should be a whole different ball game this year.  Last year, I couldn’t find chestnuts, so I substituted, I don’t know, pecans or walnuts or something.  But the other day I came across peeled, canned (preserved in water) chestnuts at Sahara Mart in Bloomington.  I think it’s going to really change the character of the stuffing.

The next task is to trim a mountain of green beans.  I’m gonna chill a while first.

I’ll post pix of the finished product later.

Of course, the Colts play today.  I’ll have to plan my inevitable crash (I didn’t get to bed until 11, after playing guitar at a funeral downstate in the morning and cooking all afternoon and evening.) around that.

12:10 - I have Randy resting under foil on the counter.  The last few times I’ve roasted turkeys, they have gotten done considerably earlier than I’d estimated.  This is one done bird, for sure.  If I give the legs one more wiggle, they’ll fall off.

4:00 - Randy wasn’t the most photogenic of turkeys. I’m afraid.  This business of getting done faster than expected caused skin peelback.  Sure was tasty, though.  And there’s a veritable ocean of the most gorgeous gravy you ever saw left over.  Repeat dinners for the next week!

I run into situations like this from time to time at the nexus of my professional life and my life as a human being with deeply held convictions.

Seven area restaurants are contributing special dishes - a lot of them pumpkin-related, given the season we’re entering into - to an event early next month called Sustainable Table.  It’s a fundraiser for the Bloomington chapter of the Sierra Club.  Because these are indeed cool, creative dishes, and because I know a lot of the chefs and proporietors involved, it ought to be the kind of thing I’d talk up on Stirring Something Up, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to help the Sierra Club further its agenda.

So I’ll just find other stuff to talk about.

Tutto Bene’s chow was the stuff of all-day raves: grilled smoked sausage, cheddar grits, black-eyed pea salad, with green and red bell pepper, onion, and vinaigrette, sliced watermelon.

Melvin Rhyne and company were loose, natural, funny, musically eloquent and appreciative of the vibe.  Avenue archivist David Williams was touched that so many people wanted to puruse his exhibit and learn more about that magical, long-gone world.

I sold some books and met some great folks.

I hereby declare Barbecue at the Sunset Terrace a great success. 

Photo 2: Melvin Rhyne, keys Cliff Ratliff, trumpet, David Young, tenor sax, Billy Meyer, bass, Larry Clark, drums

Photo 1: Keyboardist / musical bud / JfB founder Monika Herzig, WFIU jazz programmer and announcer David Brent Johnson, JfB publicist Chris Schleicher

I’ll be a guest on Joe Bourne’s weekday-afternoon jazz show, Just You and Me, on WFIU-FM at 4 PM today to discuss Barbecue at the Sunset Terrace.

That event is shaping up to be gala indeed.  Melvin Rhyne has put together a stellar quartet.  Marci, the proprietor of Tutto Bene gave me the finalized menu last night.  I got in a fresh supply of copies of my novel for signing.  Some cool stuff is showing up for the silent auction.  An artist friend of mine specially painted a work called “Feels Like Jazz.”  I haven’t seen it yet, but some folks have told me it’s really evocative.

You’ve no doubt noticed a dearth of observations from Bentnotesmanhisself the past week.  Along with Mrs. BN I’ve been in central California.  Several wine-country excursions, a day in San Francisco, hiking in the Sierras.  Good meals till I thought I’d burst.

In the Sonoma Valley, may I recommend the Eric Ross Winery and Imagery, a combination estate winery and art gallery. (They call their 06 Sauvignon Blanc Wow Oui and it is; oh-so-citric and summery.  We have a bottle on its way to us.) Also, in the town of Sonoma, an Italian place called Della Santina’s (spit-roasted rabbit w/ fresh herbs) and a Portuguese place called La Salette, where I had dishes I haven’t had in years, some since my trip to Portugal twenty-plus years ago: baccalhau (a cod-and-potato casserole), pork alentejana (a stew of braised pork cubes, clams, and sauteed onions and pimentoes - and by the way, the first recipe I ever did on Stirring Something Up), grilled sardines.

The friend with whom we stayed lives in El Dorado County, west of Sacramento (Sierra foothills), and I got enlightened on what a great wine region that is as well.  Mourverdre, Syrah, Tempranillo, Grenache, Counoise.  May I recommend Holly’s Hill, Boeger Winery, Oakstone, and Miraflores.  Miraflores is still buying lots of grapes from other vineyards, but most of their stuff should be estate-bottled next year.

In San Francisco, had cocktails at the Cliff House, a dining destination out at the west end of Geary Avenue, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. In the nineteenth century, it was the site of a big health-and-fitness facility called the Sutro Baths.  I think that establishment met its fate in the 06 earthquake.

Hiked from Carson Pass to lake Winnemuka and had a picnic lunch.  It was kind of weird to need a sweatshirt, seeing as how even at our friend’s house, let alone down in Sacramento, there was a record-setting heat wave going on (kind of like we’d hoped to leave in Indiana!)

One of Hoosierdom’s most venerable institutions, the Indiana State Fair, has banned trans fats.  First state fair in the nation to do so!  What a source of pride - NOT.

Nancy Rommelman at Pajamas Media gives her tips for making sure that classic dish indigenous to the Last Best Hope of Man On Earth - fried chicken - comes out juicy and crunchy.

I won’t be around this Independence Day - I’m doing the second week of the Aebersold workshop this year (see previous post and upcoming posts) - to wax rapsodic about American food, so I’ll either have to do my drooling about hot dogs, hamburgers, barbecued ribs, biscuits and gravy, potato salad and cucumber salad before I go or after I get back.

In any case, let’s get started with this.

Later today, Mrs. BN and I are going to head over to Bloomington, Indiana, and do some grocery shopping at the biggest locally-owned, independent (co-op) health-food supermarket around these parts.

Because so many big chains in the field, such as Whole Foods and Wild Oats (which, I guess, are merging), have encroached on the hometown stores, something in me kind of roots for this place to prevail and enjoy another twenty-five years of robust commerce.

The fact of the matter is, though, that, for all the ways it looks like the big vs. small issue that characterizes so much of the business world, particularly the retail sector, there’s another set of factors at work here that show the big and small health-food outlets to have more in common than they do things differentiating them.

This set of factors can be gathered under the rubric “countercultural impulse.”  The main selling point on which they count to set them apart is that “We’re not Kroger; we’re not Albertson’s.”  In other words, their mission transcends “corporate values.”

I remember reading somewhere a while ago that the founder of Whole Foods got an eye-opening lesson on the limits to New-Age-style capitalism as his chain experienced its rapid growth.  Groups representing do-gooder causes hit on him regularly, expecting him to pony up, since he believed in a green and just world and such.  He began to see that in order to have a charitable-contributions line in his budget at all, his first order of business was to make a profit.

Still, it’s apparent that his organization is still an Aquarian enterprise at heart.  As with all these places, both local and chain, one indicator is the magazines they offer on the stands by the checkout counter - periodicals for the feminists, Buddhists, political “progressives,” practitioners of communal living, and vegetarians among us.

There’s more than a little of the feel of a parallel universe in those places.  You go up and down the aisles and notice that the products they offer are, for the most part, what you’d find in “conventional” grocery stores - pasta sauces, paper towels, wine, meat, fish and poultry, produce, cleaning products.  A lot of the items cost more, but that’s becuse they’re either made with organic ingredients or they lack preservative chemicals an therefore have a shorter shelf life.  Some aren’t much different from their “conventional” counterparts at all, such as the breakfast cereals.  The main difference between the puffs and flakes purveyed by Kashi, Health Valley, and Barabara’s on the one hand and General Mills and Kellogg on the other is that the consumer perceives the former to have been manufactured by groovy hippies rather than greedy white males.

The health-nut impulse in our society predates the beatniks and hippies, actually.  I recall some character in Ayn Rand’s 1943 novel The Fountainhead making fun of “vegetarians and nudists.”  In fact -  and this is hugely ironic -  the whole breakfast-food industry got its start up in Battle Creek, Michigan at the sanitorium of Seventh-Day Adventist founder Ellen White, who consulted with Dr. John Kellogg and C.W. Post about toasting sheets of ground grain in order to efficiently comply with the persnickety health practices her reading of scripture convinces her were required.

On the bulletin boards these places put near the entrance and exit doors, one finds announcements for all manner of gluten-free support groups and meditation retreats and lectures by environmentalists.  I recall a couple of years ago seeing an announcement at the store where we shop for an upcoming book-signing by a lady who’d written a tome called I’m In Recovery From Western Civilization.

And that pretty well sums up what is kind of poignant and touching about these places.  They cater to a segment of the public that, because of the vast general affluence and freedom in American society, can make the choice to lead insular little tie-dyed-and-dreadlocked existences.  There’s something sweet about their vision of human living, if one overlooks the perilous obliviousness to the ever-present evil that history shows us is part of the package for our species.

I kind of dig shopping in these places, purely from the standpoint of the availability of some stuff you don’t find elsewhere.  I actually like tempeh, for instance.  I cut it into cubes and saute it with some Bragg’s Amino Acid (kind of tastes like soy sauce, and is packed with protein, as is the tempeh).  This particular place has made-on-site spicy Chinese noodles in the deli counter that are truly rockin’.  Their baba ganouj and stuffed grape leaves knock me out as well.

But for my meat I’ll head across the street to Marsh.  It’s regular old meat instead of that free-range stuff, so it’s far less pricey, and tends to have more fat on it, which is important to me.

Avocado-grapefruit salad

Mushroom risotto

Roasted asparagus

Grilled salmon with dill cream sauce

Phyllo cups filled with marscarpone and topped with mint and strawberry slices and dusted with shaved dark chocolate

The gym I go to has this daily flip-it-over-to-the-current-one-Bible-verse-and accompanying-thought thing, like a Rolodex, on the counter right inside the front door.  The thought the other day was an assertion that heaven is an actual place.  It went on to say, “Don’t be confused by the mystical religions.”  The corresponding Bible verse was Christ’s message that his Father’s house has many mansions in it, and he’s prepared one for each of us.  A place, by definition, involves three dimensions and has a geographic location that can be pinpointed.  I can tell you where Witchita, Kansas is, where Jupiter is, where the Indian Ocean is.  In what sense is heaven a place?  I sincerely would like an answer.  The last thing I want to be at this point in my life is a smart-ass skeptical agnostic, but I have to say that that Bible verse didn’t shed much light on the matter for me.  It strikes me as a figurative reassurance that we are somehow embraced by our Creator for eternity, but seems short on specifics.

 Spring came out of the gate this year in full stride.  It’s only March 25 and the Bradford pear trees are already putting out those dazzling white blossoms.  They’re stunningly beautiful, but they smell awful - like pork rinds, hog cracklins.  Seriously.

I rarely use special offers from pizza places that come in the mail.  I’m just not generally a one-topping guy, which is a lot of what they’re offering. Pizza ought to be a little busier than that. Plus, you can’t deviate at all.  No substituting pesto for the tomato sauce, for instance.  But mainly, it’s because a significant part of the deal is devoid-of-nutrients filler like sody pop and bread sticks.  What the flip do I want with that jive?  (I do have one from Avers sitting here on my desk that has some cool deals on deluxe pies.)

What is Britain gonna do about those sailors in Iranian custody? 

With spring in full flourish, it’s time to break out the warm-weather’s-back party music.  Tops on the blogmeister’s list:  “All Day Music” by War, “Grazin’ In The Grass” by Hugh Masekela,  “Wonderful World, Beautiful People” by Jimmy Cliff, “Milestones” by Miles Davis, “Time Is Tight” by Booker T and the MGs.

Do these people who make a living out of serving as “channels” for “non-physical entities” really believe that’s what they’re doing?  If some do and some don’t, what’s the ratio?

What percentage of supermarket shoppers actually prefer those flimsy-ass little plastic bags the industry has gone to in the last few years?  Do very many people really like them more than the structurally sound good old paper sacks that stores will provide if you ask?  If you go the plastic route with round objects like citrus fruit or small jars of stuff, your merchandise will roll around the floor of your car on the way home.  You can, of course, tie the top of the bag into a knot, but that’s a bother I shouldn’t have to fool with.

I know that the percentage of people earning their livings in the arts, journalism and education who are conservative is under five.  Has any polling group ever collected data on an exact figure?

Small talk absolutely drives me up the wall.  Bank tellers who say “Did you order up this weather?” or guys at the gym who say, “That’s a nice car.  How many miles to the gallon do you get?” set my teeth on edge.  Can you imagine how much more imaginative, inventive, efficient and attentive we’d be as a human race if we didn’t make each other run that crap though our heads?

Nutrition-speak likewise gets to me.  I don’t eat “portions” measured in ounces.  I eat slabs, racks, bowlsful, scoops and dollops.  I think nutritionists are joyless creatures posing as sages holding the keys to unforeseen vistas of human fulfillment.  They don’t hold it.  The chef at my favorite place to get prime rib does.

How prominent a role should music play in a human life?