More 'Shroomies, Steak, Garlic Mashed Potatoes

Steak was broiled last night; seasoned with red wine, sea salt, pepper.  Cooked at 4:30 each side.

Potatoes: Obvy.  Boil, mash, mix with butter, garlic, salt, pepper to taste.

'Shroomies: Leftover Baby Bellas and buttons I didn't make the other night.  Seasoned with sesame lime salad dressing, sea salt, pepper, lime juice, olive brine, nutmeg, paprika.  Also: kalamata olives, sliced in half, one small red onion, quartered.  Cooked in a square baking dish for 20 minutes.

After finishing, sprinkled with bleu cheese.

Basically -- throw together whatever the hell sounds good, or might sound good, cook it, try it.  Could be a colossal failure or success. 

Served with Lagunitas The Hairy Eyeball Ale.

Oh --

Please Note: Best not to drop your phone in the mashed potatoes as you take the picture.  Makes for a starchy cleanup likely not covered by any warranty, extended or otherwise.

When a Dolphin Laughs at You, You Know Change is Needed

I have what's called an FSA -- flexible spending account -- that I can put towards medical things that are usually out of pocket.  I've generally never had a problem spending it over the year, as I used to go to acupuncture more often.  But now that I've had my gall bladder out, I've been much healthier, and I haven't gone as much.

The fiscal year for the FSA ends on March 31 and resets on April 1, and I realized I had a lot of money left on it.  And if I don't spend it -- the company gets to keep it.  There was no way I was going to allow them to get all that dough, especially since it's my money to begin with.

What to do?

The solution was to go to Kaiser to get a new prescription for my glasses and choose several new ones.  And that I did -- I got four new pairs of glasses, and it was so fun to get to choose more than one.  I usually wear contacts, but I do wear my glasses every night, and I do get kind of tired of them.  I also got some prescription sunglasses (which I've always thought I should have, but have never gotten) as well as some really nice non-prescription ones.

The FSA site says that non-prescription sunglasses are "potentially eligible" if they get a letter from my eye doctor stating that I need them.  So I wrote to him and asked if he might do just that for me, as my thought was that anything I got at Kaiser would be far better than anything I could get at your everyday, garden-variety drug store -- and these are my eyes, after all.  Have to keep them safe! Right away on Monday morning I received a reply from him saying that my medical record stated I was "light sensitive", and that he would therefore "prescribe" over-the-counter sunglasses as a necessity.

w00t! as they say in the gaming world.

So I got some really nice Oakleys, which I've always wanted, and some classic Ray Ban Wayfarers.  As I still had a load of money left, I then went back and bought a second pair of the same Oakleys, reasoning that if something happened to my first ones, I'd have a backup pair already in place.  I'd likely never have that much money left over to spend again, and so since I did this time -- I may as well use it up as much as I could.  I also got a pair of cute white ones by Guess.  All polarized and very nice.

I had a pair of black Wayfarers (these are a dark almost tortoiseshell brown) that I bought when I was in the Air Force when they were on sale.  But, a few months later, they were stolen.  I hope whoever took them got a lot more use out of them than I did.

When I was about 12 or so, I had a pair of electric blue, cheap, Wayfarer-style sunglasses.  I LOVED them, and thought they were really cool (well, I was 12.  It was the 80s....)

That summer, my family and I took a trip to Hawaii.  One of the things we did was go to Sea World, and one of the shows we watched was with dolphins.  It was in a below-ground room built so that you could see below the water as well as above it for the tricks they performed.   

While we were waiting for the show to begin, I went down to the tank to watch the dolphins swim around.  I was so excited.  Dolphins!  Close up!  One of them stopped and looked at me, and I swear it had an amused expression on its face.  Then it began making its squeaking-cluck noises and its head kept bobbing up and down.

I got the distinct feeling I was amusing it somehow.  That it was -- laughing at me.  Why? I wondered.  My -- glasses, perhaps?  My totally cool, electric blue Wayfarers?  Surely not.

I took them off, and the dolphin stopped laughing, but still continued to watch me -- still with the deeply-amused expression (I remember also thinking how shiny and black its eye was, and how intelligent it seemed).  I put the glasses back on.  It started laughing again.  Took them off -- laughter stopped.  Put them back on -- laughter.  Finally I took them off and slipped them into my pocket. After a moment of watching me a bit more, the dolphin swam away.

I trudged back up to where my parents were and said, glumly, "I want a new pair of sunglasses.  The dolphin just laughed at mine."

I got a new pair at the gift shop.

The electric blue ones got tossed into a drawer when I got home, and eventually they just kind of disappeared.  I felt no loss.  I still think of those glasses sometimes and laugh as I'm perusing them at Rite Aid.

The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau meets What Not to Wear.

So at least these are all real and would likely get, I think, approval from that dolphin, my friendly, marine personal shopper.  We know they're highly intelligent, but who knew they also have fashion sense?

Salmon, 'Shroomies, Asparagus.

Dinner tonight:

Organic baked salmon from New Seasons, which I then braised with sesame-lime salad dressing after warming up gently.

Topping:

Mushrooms (crimini, baby bella, button, shiitake) seasoned with minced ginger, capers, blueberries, tarragon-infused vodka, olive brine, paprika, nutmeg, lemon juice, sea salt and freshly-ground pepper. 

Asparagus:

Roasted; seasoned with sea salt, freshly-ground pepper.

Don't ask me quantities, I just go with what I know is good and sounds tasty.  Minced ginger came to about 3 Tbs sprinkled; capers, maybe 2.  Enough seasonings to enhance but not make you go ptooie and frown because it's too strong.

Served with a side of beer and rosemary crispbread crackers by 34 Degrees.

Bake mushrooms and blueberries at 475 for five minutes, then put in asparagus.  Bake for another ten.  Take out mushrooms and blueberries to "rest" (make sure they have a blankie and teddy bear); broil asparagus for 2 minutes.

Serve.

Then, as the esteemed Cooking Asshole (www.cookingasshole.com) and Weird Al Yankovic would say: Eat it.

I Knew What I Meant. Really.

Many years ago, my indoctrination to beer was on Coors, Heineken -- decent enough -- and Mickey's...that's what we had in the house, and I was allowed a sip or two.  Later it was Henry Weindards, and, whilst in the Air Force, it was Whatever Else Someone Was Buying and/or Was Cheap.  Translation = Miller Lite.

I have, of course, since widened my taste and selection.  I am from Portland, after all.  They say you know you're in Seattle because it's bookstore, coffee shop, bookstore, coffee shop; you know you're in Portland because it's bookstore, coffee shop, micro-/craft brewery...bookstore, coffee shop, micro-/craft brewery....

 (Side story here -- I have two friends from Minnesota who moved out here to Oregon and say those above -- Bud, Miller, Coors -- is all you can really get in wide distribution; but, now, after having lived in Portland for so many years and drinking "real" beer, they now say they "can't drink that other stuff" anymore!)

But I digress.

So, roll back maybe 15 years ago.  My family -- my mother, my brother and me (my parents were divorced by then) -- it's possible my best friend was there, too -- were in a McMenamins restaurant. 

(Now, remember, I was a neophyte to this whole beer-type thing, and I was most definitely over 21 by then, though by only two or three years).  I had the menu, and, on the back, they had their beers/beer types printed.  Given acronyms often have pronunciations (NASA, UNICEF, SYSCO...), I piped up to the server, "What's an 'eepah'?  I've always wanted to know."

He blinked at me, note pad and pen paused in his hands.  "A what?"

"An eepah," I replied.  "You have stout, red and eepah.  I understand what a stout is -- but what's an eepah?"

He burst into laughter.  "It's 'eye pee aye'," he said, when he finally managed to collect his wits back about himself.  "It stands for 'India Pale Ale'."

I felt everything grow still in me as my body threw its entire effort of existence into making every nodule of my skin turn dark red; I could even feel my scalp get tight.  "Oh," I said, grinning -- but somewhere between rather embarrassed and mortified.  "Ha ha."  (I'd noticed the periods between the letters, but it still didn't click).  "I'd like to try that, please."

He took our order and walked away, still laughing, muttering, "Eepah -- !" as he walked away.  As he went back to the kitchen area, I heard him say to his friends, "Oh -- you gotta hear this." (Somewhere, he's probably still telling that story.)

Fast forward several years, to another McMenamis here in Portland.  Picture it -- a beautiful sunny summer day, a lovely vine-sheltered patio, good friends, good ambiance, good humor, good spirits, good food, good beer.  "I really like dark beers," I said to my friend.  "The darker the better." (Not so much now; I'm more of an 'eepah' kind of gal, though reds and dark ales are swell, too).  A server walked by with a tray of drinks.  "Like that one," I said, pointing to a pint glass filled with a dark brown substance and topped with a creamy frothy head.  "What is that?" I asked.

The server (another guy, actually), having heard my comment, blinked, and said, "It's our root beer."

Reinfusing with the same blush as described above I said, "Oh, haha.  I knew that.  I was just testing you...."

"Right," he said, laughing.

(My brother and father and best friend, as the good enemies that they are, have never let me live either of those things down, given I made the mistake of telling them about the root beer, and having them present with the 'eepah' fiasco).

I'm proud to say I'm far better-schooled now (thankfully).

At least I didn't ask what the "ab-vee" content was.

Section 60

    The day looks overcast, warm and muggy.  The grass is stiff-looking, patched with green and sandy brown, the colors of thirst from a hot summer, or perhaps a warm and dry spring.  A camellia tree, leaves polished emerald, bears two pink flowers, as if wanting to hang on to the last grasping idea of cooler spring, long over as the calendar has spilled into warmer days. 
    There is no shade where she lies, stretched out on her belly on a dull, gray blanket, a half-empty bottle of water propped against her purse next to her, along with a denim jacket that looks far too large for her; it isn't hers.  It's a token she wears of a life gone past -- what was wanted, what could have been, what was planned, and what was taken.  Worn for memory and a cooler morning.  Two people at the edge of the lawn -- one standing, the other, seated in a wheelchair, legs askew in the angle of loss -- look out across the expanse of white stones and grass.  It's unknown if they are connected to her, but they share a similar, unspoken reason for visiting.
    Her feet are bare and crossed, the soles dusty-colored and speaking of a preference for sandals and flip-flops -- or perhaps nothing at all.  Her skin is pale and clear, and the strapless, black and white polka-dot sundress she wears looks wrinkled and comfortably thin; her thick and pretty brown-gold hair is caught up in a bun to keep it off her neck and from acting like an insulating scarf in the humid heat.
    Before her, fresh with new flowers, is a white marble sentry.  More wash out next to her and on and on and on into the distance -- white blurs standing at attention, posture erect and perfect and permanent.  One has fluttering mylar balloons -- blue stars and circles touched with gold and yellow -- and a thick sheaf of flowers that match the flag next to it on the ground.  Others also have flowers.  Some have none, bringing a deeper, further sense of loneliness and quiet.
    She is still.
    Her shoulders are curved so greatly the bones are points; her head is heavy and bowed to the ground as she whispers her day and week, talks of little things, of something she saw on television she thought he would like -- a funny moment, bittersweet and unshared.  She whispers to him, in the same way done at night by couples planning out lives of shared bills and frustrations, joys and explorations.
    Except now there is no answer, no innocent excitement.  The future became the past, lost like a lone balloon torn loose from a storefront -- rising and rising into the void of the sky, lost in the sun, rising into emptiness.
    She whispers nothing, for nothing can be said.  He cannot hear her -- though a part of her, perhaps great, perhaps small -- believes he does.  Perhaps she tries to believe he's in a better place...but in such moments, in moments when the darkness of the early morning hours yawn out into a loneliness so great it suffocates, those platitudes -- ones spoken by people who bear no knowledge of how truly insipid and cruel they are -- foster nothing but jealousy, hatred and anger for the ground which now holds, like a cold and worm-ridden mistress, what she has lost.  Time does not heal such wounds; it is only trickery from a protective heart and mind that creates the hope that bandages will come.
    There are no accolades for her, for anyone like her.  The wives and husbands left behind to scrabble-scratch through the day, ignoring the worry and anxiety that leaves them breathless in those same dark and chasmic hours...or even in unsuspecting moments as groceries are bought, as laughing children are sent off to school.  There are no medals or holidays for them, for the fiancees and girlfriends and boyfriends, the mothers and fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, cousins, friends who hold things up while the source of their worry is away in lands hot with Biblical-aged dust, ones of razor cold and caves.  Lands cast with moisture-dripping jungles, or skies thick and black with the terrible, deafening bellow of B-17s and P-51 Mustangs.  Neither side provides decorations for those who remain behind.  It's simply expected.  And it is also that weight she bears.
    It is a moment felt by someone attached to each of the headstones, somewhere at some time.  A moment that broke open, raw and savage and stunning, no less so than a mortar releasing its metal-sharded violence.  There was a moment when those moments at night, when the exchanges of hopeful lovers flew upwards with the shining, searing glory of fireworks on a clear, early July night, becoming impermanent and translucent.  Nothing more than a ring on a finger and a collection of photographs, emails, letters and text or voicemail messages lingering on a phone.
    She lies on her stomach, whispering to him.
    The wind, hissing and shushing through the bushes and trees around her, becomes the reply.  It carries the voices of all those around her, who became silent and erased.  The voices of those who felt fear and homesickness, loss as thick as what is felt by those they left in an alien world of civilian clothes and traffic jams, home repairs and Friday night football, things those voices thirsted for as they crouched in armored camouflage, heavy with government-issue rations and weapons.  Voices that had laughter and sorrow, flus, paper cuts and stubbed toes wrapped in curses shot towards the source of the pain.  Voices that left shaving bits in the sink, refrigerator doors open, or shoes shucked at the top of the stairs.  Annoyances worth gold and gems she now craves.
    But there is no voice that can speak the meaning of her moment.  There are no words anywhere, just the faraway silence of the stars.