Author: DmentD

*shudders*

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Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.

I, as you know, was born and raised in south Louisiana.  The glorious land of high humidity, warm temperatures, narrow minds, and expanded appetites.  Louisiana, the land where residents routinely dine on mass quantities of the aquatic equivalent of the Madagascar hissing cockroach, and prehistoric reptiles that would be just as happy dining on mass quantities of you.  A land where the scrapings of a pig’s scull are gelatinized, molded, refrigerated, and served on crackers under the dubious label of “head cheese”.  The land where fresh roadkill is just a time saving step toward getting your grocery shopping done (and consequently the former home to one of the oldest leper colonies in the U.S.).  I am now keeping my food heritage alive and well in Austin… Jeebus help them all.

I tell you, as a man raised in that gastronomical environment, I am disgusted and mortified by the tale of the wee orlotan, a bird from the bunting family that is the size of a lark.  And I figure if it has that effect on me, then who am I to not share it with the people I love the most.  Here — stolen shamelessly from the pages of the St. Kew Inn newsletter — is the finest description of what has me tweaked almost beyond words:

“After netting, the bird has its eyes poked out and is kept in a cage where it gorge feeds on millet, grapes and figs until it gets about four times its normal size.  It is drowned in Armagnac, and then roasted in a very hot oven for about 6-8 minutes.  The great experience is entirely in the eating.  Firstly a traditional embroidered napkin is placed over one’s head – some say this is to enable the diner to inhale the earthy, rich aroma, others say it is to hide one’s head from God for one’s gluttony and shame.  Then place the piping hot bird in one’s mouth leaving the head dangling out, bite it off and discard.  Inhale rapidly through the mouth to cool the bird down and allow the ambrosial fat to cascade down one’s throat.  When cool, slowly begin to chew.  In a glorious 15 minutes, work through the breast and wings allowing the delicate cracking bones to lacerate the gums and allow one’s own salty blood to mingle as one moves on to the inner organs.  Devotees claim they can taste the bird’s entire life as they chew in the darkness: the wheat of Morocco, the salt air of the Mediterranean, the lavender of Provence.  The pea sized lungs and heart, saturated in Armagnac are said to burst in a liqueur-scented flower on the diner’s tongue.“

Mmm, mmm!  There is nothing quite like having a bird (blinded, fed to the point of bursting, drowned in brandy and roasted whole) — feathers and all — popped straight away into your maw to sear your mouthflesh.  The delight of prizing the head off with your teeth is nearly as wonderful as shredding your gums with its tiny, brittle bones.  I mean, come on!

This lovely dish/ritual comes to us courtesy of the French, who have had a hit-and-miss relationship with their influences on world gastronomy (admittedly, mostly “hit”, but still…).  The cherry on top is that it was as late as 1999 that they outlawed the preparation and sale of the orlotan as a dish, but it took till 2007 to outlaw consumption.

This ranks up there on the squick-me-out-scale alongside the Dirty Jobs episode where Mike was docking the tails of sheep, and castrating them with his teeth.  I was squirming in my seat the whole episode, and frankly had to avert my eyes a few times out of sympathy.

Oh Jeebus.

Thank you Sweets for intoducing me to the orlotan.  You never fail to surprise me with the things you know.  I will have my revenge one day.

Thanks!

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It’s that time of year again, another pre-printed entry on every calendar we own.  We note it, we look forward to some time off of work/school/whatever.  We start shopping so we can fill ourselves to critical mass on traditional family meals that are lovingly made with blood (“I’ll kill you if you don’t get the hell out of my kitchen!”), sweat (“Jeebus, it’s hot in here… and they’re all gonna die if they don’t get out of my kitchen!“) and tears (*sob* “I can’t take it any more!  Can you blame me for hamstringing little Timmy… that little bastard wouldn’t get out of my kitchen!).  We feebly fight over the remote control as we communally bloat on every horizontal surface available — sofas, floors, sidewalks, the dog — eventually ending in a slow motion slap fight as our insulin levels peak and shut us down one critical subsystem after another (life support being the last).

Oh, how I love Kwanzaa.

No, wait… Thanksgiving.

I wanna thank the universe for causing my path to cross — and sometimes run parallel with — the paths of so many spectacular people.  I may not always say it, show it, or express it in interpretative dance, but I do love and appreciate the family I was born into, and the Family I chose along my travels.

I am thankful for the shoulders to cry on in pain, the livers to destroy in celebration, the late nights shooting the shit about any and everything, the long days silently enjoying movies.  The memories… good and bad, the influences… good and bad, the ever-lasting opportunities to learn and grow,a the fights, the laughs, the sex.  The ho-hum times, the exiting times, the frightening times too.  The jokes at each others (and our own) expense, the conspiratory evils perpetrated, the impromptu angelic deeds performed.  The passion, compassion, indifference, love and hate.

We’re all a rotten mess.  We have not only ourselves to blame, but those who have drifted in and out of our lives to blame too, and I’m thankful for that almost more than anything else.  I’m a mutt… a conglomeration of my own thoughts and opinions stirred together into a gumbo with everything I have experienced from those who have besmirched my brain by sharing my world.  I like who I am — as much as anyone who isn’t born with a rabbit’s foot up their ass, and has been blessed with super-genius intelligence, wealth, looks, and not a callus on their hands from a hard day’s work, can.  I could certainly use more of the afore mentioned blessings, hell everyone could, but otherwise I make do well enough.

If you’re reading this, it’s more than likely you’re one of my cosmic crossroads, and you’ll know precisely what I mean by this:

Its’a Birthday Time.

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Meh.  It’s my birthday.

I’ve never been one to go ga-ga for my birthday, or expect the known free world to acknowledge my existence, and shower me with love, attention and adoration just because this is the day I was born on a few ice ages ago.  I have good friends and family, and well wishers, and if someone wants to make a deal of it (big or small), I’m grateful and happy as can be — and usually just a wee little less happy than that to let it slide without a peep.  I love when people remember, and don’t fault those that don’t (hell, I never remember anyone else’s, so why should I get even a little upset if they don’t remember mine?).

I’ve never felt the pressure of age or getting older, and never looked forward with fear, dread and loathing at the big waypoint birthdays — 20, 25, 30, etc.  A birthday to me is a way to mark the time as it passes: “Oh, its been another year.  Neato.”  Currently my age is somewhere between speed limits on surface streets, leaning toward the direction of multi-lane, divided roads.  Talk to me when I hit highway speeds.

Today I do feel a little down and drained, and I think it has to do more with spending the last four days performing an archaeological dig in my server room at work to unbury years of neglect, and many generations of lazy techs letting shit slide rather than do things the right way, rather than today having anything to do with a biological coincidence.  I’m feeling a bit quiet and a smidgen low.  *shrugs* This too shall pass.

You’re only as old as the girl you feel… and if that’s the case, I’m damn near a spring chicken.  Who am I fooling — I’m a gray, grizzled, wrinkled old cock.  *grins* But, I am very immature for my age, so I have that going for me.

Ca-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ke!

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New cake in the gallery… a life sized zombie emerging from the ground.  The cake is broken up into two galleries — “Construction” and “Completed Cake”, and there are a lot of pictures.

The torso is “green velvet” cake and was a nasty mossy-black green with gummy bones sprinkled between the layers for a fun texture, iced with a tissue colored buttercream. The hands are green rice treats wrapped around a copper armature, iced with the same buttercream. The head contains a white chocolate “brain pan”, filled with a sweet blood sauce, and the rest of the head is sculpted from green rice treats and iced with the buttercream as well. The teeth are cast white chocolate. The whole thing is covered in fondant, then painted appropriately.

The base is bordered with fondant stones, and the soil is made of a combination of graham crackers, ginger snaps, and chocolate cookie snacks.

Sweets and I had a hell of a lot of fun making this one, even though it was as ton of work.  It is also the first specialty cake we’ve worked on together,

Change Is In The Air.

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Well, it’s pretty much over — and the Old Boys are out, and the new young Hooligan is in.  Dear Jeebus, please let there be a fresh breath of air somewhere in the years to come.  Let’s see if business as usual really does become business unusual.

While surfing my usual haunts tonight, I stumbled across the most sobering post I’ve seen yet with regard to this election, and I’d like to share it to help temper the blind celebration and enthusiasm that is running rampant around me.

Don’t get me wrong — there is cause to celebrate — but please do bear in mind that we are still talking about politicians here, and a force much larger, and with more impetus than simply pulling a lever can stop dead.

We’re standing on the tracks, trying to reverse the direction of a train that is barreling at us at top speed by merely throwing our hands out before us and locking our elbows.  Congratulations, the impossible has happened and we weren’t instantly pulverized by the train… but it’s still pushing us backward as we dig our heels in to stop its progress.  We still have to bring it to a halt and push it back down the tracks from whence it came, but it’s a heavy sonofabitch, with a hell of a lot of momentum behind it already.  Honestly, I think the best we can hope for is to steer it to the nearest junction and switch it to a different track… which still requires a lot of energy.

I don’t think one term is enough to gain back a lot of ground, but if the Hooligan can be more human than politician, we may slow the ugly beast down, and maybe open a few minds in the process, giving us some momentum of our own.  It has to start somewhere, folks, and this is as good a way to start it as any.

Just don’t stop pushing, and don’t ever take your eyes of our leaders for one second, because a politician — after all is said and done — is still a politician.

Mishmash.

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Random points of (dubious) interest in my otherwise uneventful week so far:

Sweets — in a feat best described as magic — managed to not break any bones in her hand after having it smashed between two heavy, wheeled, stainless steel tables at school.  I’m sure she’s not feeling too magical right about now, but I have to tell you that accidents do happen… and her bones pulled off some kind of fucking Houdini trick by not actually being in her hand at the moment of impact.  I keep telling her to take this act on the road, but she reminds me that the bill for splints, ice and Advil will far outweigh any profits from the performance.  You can read her account of the incident HERE.

On that note, and swinging the sympathy spotlight back toward me for a moment — and this site is all about letting my inner narcissist out of his cage — my ankle is doing remarkably well.  Walking is mostly back to normal, I have a little soreness now and again, some swelling when I don’t keep off it enough, and a lovely jolt up my leg when I step awkwardly on a piece of uneven ground.  Subtle reminders of the frailty of the human body.

The new dishwasher was delivered today, to be installed by me tomorrow.  Thank goodness, as I fear that some sort of boogeyman has taken up residence in the gaping maw under my countertop that the old dishwaher was removed from.  I’ll have to shoo him out with a broom and a flamethrower.

Been eating more delicious baked goods than I can conceivably begin to list here.  Had many and varied breads the last three weeks, and there is a dubious looking container of white goo in my fridge labeled “Bready Kreuger”, looking for all the world like a failed experiment in Dr. Frankenstein’s lab.  Sweets tells me it’s a sourdough starter, but I suspect it’s some sentient beastie that is going to nuzzle up to the lid of its container, pry it free, ooze under the fridge door, fall to the floor with a wet “plorp” sound, and come and kill me in my sleep.  Or give me a yeast infection.  *ba-dum-tish* Thank you, thank you, I’m here all week.

We have made two cakes for actual money so far.  A slow start, but a start nonetheless.  Looking for more like that.  Am putting together a price-list for my friend who manages a local eatery, to supplement their dessert menu.  Not a lot of money in it, but lots of fantastic practice, opportunities to hone and retool our processes, and of course, a stack of business cards to be handed out if folks ask who made what they just enjoyed.  *crosses fingers* We wouldn’t complain to have more paying gigs during the week.

On that note, also working on a front-end for curiousconfections.com, to make the site a little more than a gallery.

Have been teaching Sweets how to drive on our shores… and not use the backwards, metric, left-side of the road style that makes up only 28% of the world’s total road distance.  *ducks* She’s doing astoundingly well, and it doesn’t hurt that she does know how to drive (even if she hasn’t done it in a while).  Not once have I had to grab the oh-shit handle, or stomp on the voodoo brake — I feel safe and confident with her in the car.  In a year, once she’s feeling confident and plucky, that’s when I’ll be diving under the dashboard for safety.  *grins*

That’s all my brain feels capable of yarfing up onto your screen for now.  More later, as later brings more.

Dishwasher, R.I.P.

DmentD

Well, the old crappy dishwasher that came with the house finally went tits up.  It wasn’t worth replacing right away as it did a passable job of cleaning the dishes and heated them up nicely, so I decided to either use it till it died, or replace it upon further kitchen remodeling down the road.

It died.

Noticed that the last batch of dishes a few days ago came out really spotty for some reason, bit since I got some spots anyway with each load, I figured it was just more of the same.  Loaded the washer up and went to run it and noticed it didn’t finish the previous cycle (and upon further examination, there was standing water in the bottom too)… that would explain the spots, and also meant I needed to re-wash those dishes.  So, cranked the dial around to run the latest batch.  Nothing. It just stared up at me with flat lifeless eyes.  I checked the breakers, flipped the retarded light switch that the building code requires to be able to turn off a dishwasher from above the counter, spun the knob a few more times… not a peep.

“Dammit, don’t you die on me!”  I grabbed my tools and prepared for emergency, open panel surgery.  I dismantled the front of the washer to expose all the wiring, searching desperately for a breaker of some sort.  “Live, you sonofabitch, LIVE!”  I confirmed I had power to every part of the washer (with this strange little toy/tool that Drew turned me on to that detects electrical fields), even the wash-selector dial.  “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”  He was gone.

Ok, to be fair, there is likely some buried little part that is burnt out somewhere in the unit.  I could call in a repair person to take up the torch where I left off with my amateur, yet logical knowledge of electrical appliances (having repaired quite a few in the past).  But this washer is crap, and not worth the expense of a service call and subsequent replacement part, or even, to be honest, worth wasting more than the 45 minutes I spent on it last night.  It was earmarked for the shitpile in the near foreseeable future, so I might as well bite the bullet and replace it now — It can always be moved to its new location when the eventual remodel happens anyway.

Part of me is pissed that it broke before I could replace it, but the rest of me is breathing a sigh of relief that I can now get a modern, efficient unit that will allow me to unload it without the need to inspect every piece of dishware to be sure it actually got clean.  Sometimes you just need a valid excuse.

A Year In Time.

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It’s been a year to the day since Sweets and I finally admitted to each other — and ourselves — that we were head-over-heels in love.  We count this as our official day, even though we had been talking and making goo-goo eyes at one another over a video connection for many months prior.  It’s the day we couldn’t hold back any more, and let drop the guard around our hearts.

It’s very strange — and neither of us can explain it — how two people from two dramatically different backgrounds, cultures, and living half a world away could find one another in a random encounter on the Internet… one that had nothing to do with making a romantic connection.  Not only did we manage to stumble across each other, but as time crept along, we found out that we were very alike and compatible.  Now that Sweets has been here for six or so weeks, we’re discovering that we get along very well in close quarters as well.  We’re both silly, geeky, very odd people with similar senses of humo(u)r.

I do indeed love you my sweet girl, and this last year has just zoomed by.  Now that you’re here, I can only hope time slows down a bit so I can enjoy having you near.

Happy A-day, my little honeybee.