Store Brand Oreos and Cheap Cabernet

So we're watching Anthony Bourdain--he's in Spain and we're salivating. Never watch Anthony Bourdain without something to drink or eat. I go crack a bottle of cheap California Cab and root around for something to eat late on a Monday night; I find an open package of Target brand Oreo type cookies. My girls swear that these are not as good as the "real" ones, but I beg to differ. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the exotic food preparations on the television, but these "oreos" are just a bit more chocolaty, just a bit creamier, and even a little less than perfect in how they're shmushed together and a little more crumbly; they are less shortening and more flavor. And the Cabernet loves them. Two modest offerings from the pantry, the right mood, lover at my side, Bourdain's wisecracking New York patois, and they meld into a perfect snack.

Like a lot of memorable eating experiences, my modest cookies and red wine have less to do with any great culinary finesse, and more to do with an attitude that this is this. The good life is here and now, to share and savor with whatever and whomever is near.

Summer Vacated

"may you live in interesting times"--an ancient curse, I believe.
Alas, it's been an interesting summer.

I hope to make new and regular contributions to this spot, including themes of, but not limited to, school, weather, travel, love, music, dining, drinking, smoking, sanity, and picture making.

Stay tuned...

Rock & Roll Comes On A Thursday

(see this entry)
...but this time it's the Bellrays, who kick ass over and over, taking no prisoners with their head rattling, soul stretching rock & roll. Another band which renews your faith in why the music matters, Lisa and the band can make you believe nothing else matters when they are on stage, no mean feat in this age of over saturation and over commercialization in the music business. A time when some would have us believe that the price of your ticket or the size of the stage show should make you feel guilty for being less than impressed, here is the real deal.

Rock & Roll Comes On A Tuesday

...or whenever or wherever you might not expect it. After a half century, or really a whole damn century, of electrified, hip-shaking, brain rattling music from the American gut, and a complete commodification of said rattling, it's heartening to STILL find rock rolling.

Singing, screaming, thrashing and bashing out the rhythm, a melody as direct as a "hey, baby" a continuo that shakes your balls, and skull splitting drums in a room where you can feel, smell, and even taste it--that's rock & roll the way the lord meant it.

And that is what came, unexpectedly, on a Tuesday night in May at The Beachland Tavern, when Pela played on the second night of their tour. Warming up themselves as well as the small crowd of early-in-the-week music lovers, they fairly blew the few away. With insistent riffs and urgent singing, both catchy and pushy, Pela reminds you of why you love the music.

Going on a whim and a blurb, it's the unexpected, sometimes obscure, or otherwise just hard working shows like this which renew my faith in the music.

The Messenger

I was Nancy Theresa, Nunciata, do you know what that is? The annunciation, Nunciata, I’m the messenger, “kill the messenger”, ha ha! But really, I feel like that’s what I am sometimes. I’m just the messenger, Annunciation...


Antonia, do you know that was your great grandmother’s name? Antoinette. She would be so honored to know that you have her name... And Anthony! The greatest saint. There he is--you pray to him when you lose something. He is the saint of lost causes. Antonia. Antoinette. You are lucky to have a sister.


I had a sister, but she was still born. Do you know the irony? Grandma and Grandpa fought about their tenants. They always had tenants, you know. After they moved from the third floor to the second floor then all of their uncles came to stay--both sides, there were always relatives living upstairs. But Grandma and the woman downstairs were pregnant at the same time, but they fought. They argued. And Grandpa would get mad, he was so mean to her. He was terrible and he threw her down. And my sister was born dead. And the downstairs neighbor--this is the irony--she had twins! Grandpa was so terrible, but everyone thought he was a “prince”. They thought he was such a wonderful person, but he was so terrible to Grandma. And I would have had a sister, and I regret that to this day. Three brothers, but no sister. And they gave me her name--Nunciata. It’s not my name, it’s my sister’s name. It’s not right. It was Peter, then my sister who died, then Mike, then Blaise.

But you evened everything out, later, you know. My Even-Steven. That’s what you are. Ha ha. You are an abstract, you know that? I see that when I see your pictures. Your brother Douglas is a classic. You are an abstract. Roger can make any kind of picture. You are all so talented. My photographer boys. Your dad is very resourceful, girls. You are talented like him.

Uncle Mortimer the Tang

At a very early age (and even now) when I heard voices, sounds, or sound effects, I usually felt compelled to try to imitate or mimic them. As it were, the sound of the Road Runner was particularly memorable and challenging; MEEP-MEEP, followed by that springy sound effect--you know, MEEP-MEEP-pa-TANG....

So young Bean could often be found wandering about, sputtering cartoon voices and sound effects, a Tourette's-like cavalcade of happy sounds... MEEP-MEEP-fffffffffssshhhhhhwooooop-pa-TANG! tang! TANG!.
Well it wasn't long before my brothers picked up on the "tang" suffix, adding it to various words and phrases--such-and-such-the-tang. One such concoction was the regular ice cream truck driver, known, creepily I now think, as "Uncle Marty"; Uncle Marty quickly evolved into Uncle Morty, which wasn't far from Uncle Mortimer. Well, Uncle Mortimer was OK, but he really needed a bit more, after all, we weren't shortening things at that point. So Uncle Mortimer became Uncle Mortimer the Tang.

EPILOGUE: ironically, in spite of all my linguistic twists and silly mimicry, I still couldn't bring myself to say the name of the ice cream treat which came in a paper cone and had a gum ball at the bottom. I remember walking up to Uncle Mortimer the Tang and asking him for that particular item, knowing full well what it was called! I just couldn't say it...




(You can google it if you want. I'm still not going to say it.)

Hail Mary, Full of Face

The unimpeachable bane of the western woman, the god-mother and self sacrificing servant, the unlikely and unbelievable figure of 2,000 years of devotion, is represented in the both perfect and devilish number of 18 panels by Beth Mastroianni in an installation at Brandt Gallery through April 12, 2008.

The Hail Mary, as much a prayer as a mantra, is treated to a personal representation by Ms. Mastroianni in this series portraying family, friends, and even a politician, in each of eighteen phrases of the invocation.

(Closing reception Friday, April 11, 2008)

Love (over Virtue or Fortune)

The struggle of the gods is played out by the earth-bound emperor Nero, his lover Poppea, her spurned fiancé Ottone, and the Empress Ottavia, in one of Monteverdi's final operas. In a haunting production by the Oberlin Conservatory's Opera Theater this past week, the wishful notion of the triumph of love turns startling and brutal.
Brutal in the reality of spurned lovers turning murderous, startling as the virtue of loyalty ending in self destruction. And sad in the joy taken in so much pain.

This dark and twisted comedy premiered in 1642, but it's theme is strikingly contemporary--or so we may think, as the gauzy scrim of nostalgia might suggest (wrongly) that times were ever "better", that art was ever more "uplifting". In reality, Monteverdi, the godfather of opera, plumbed the depths of emotion and human frailties in this masterwork, leaving no heroes and no one unscathed.

Immoral Fate, Hail Mary, etc.

I regret that I've been under the weather and rather busy the past couple of weeks, and as a result have not posted. But I'll have some thoughts on The Coronation of Poppea, and the Hail Mary as well. Soon...

7:41 AM

That's the time it was when he started laying on the doorbell. On a Sunday. Not one ring or two, but a dingdingdingdingdingdingding of continuous jabbing at the switch. And again. And I started from bed--do I get dressed? What? Socks? Who?

dingdingdingdingdingdingding

Henry--we'll call him Henry--is apparently homeless, and frequents the neighborhood because of the church up the street which feeds and ministers to the homeless. Henry will do stuff for money--rake leaves, shovel snow, haul trash, anything you got.

This time Henry had a snow shovel in hand; he "borrows" these tools, like rakes and shovels, from other neighbors to do the job, unless you want to "lend" him a shovel. But it hasn't snowed in two days, and even though I didn't shovel when it did, there wasn't much, and most of it has melted down. But Henry is here, shovel in hand, at 7:41 on a Sunday. The fact is, there's no beer or wine sold on Sundays until after 12 noon, so Henry's got some time to hustle. Henry needs cash.

Henry drinks. He probably does other things as well, but he drinks. He can rake a yard and fill four bags with leaves, powered by a Colt 45 "Tall Boy". He just sets it on the porch, in a bag, and gets to work. Henry hustles.

I don't know how old Henry is; he looks 55, but he's probably 33. Henry's got nothing much, nobody cares where Henry is this morning, at 7:41, on a Sunday. Nobody cares how old he is. Henry's mind is focused on too few things; he doesn't care what time it is. He's long past caring as those around him are long past caring about him. He just needs some cash.

Spaghetti Aglio e' Olio for lunch

The simplest of all pasta traditions, but also very easy to fuck up badly. Here's the lowdown on that simple yet elusive preparation:

Pasta
Olive Oil
Garlic
Red pepper flakes
(that's it!)

You already know how to cook pasta, right? Don't make me tell you to add salt to the water or make sure it's boiling before you drop it in, and if you rinse it I'm gonna break your neck. Anyone heard of Al Dente? No? If you overcook it I'll send Al down to break your neck, too!

Now, get yourself a big ol' pan and some good extra virgin olive oil ("extra virgin", that was me in high school).

Chop up a bunch of garlic (at least a half dozen cloves--don't make me come down there!)
NO, you cannot use garlic powder, paste, or that damn garlic press... Get out your big knife and make a scene!

Put the pan on some heat, put oil in the pan (half a cup, more or less--it's good for you, so shut up and pour!)

Go ahead and throw the garlic in the pan--here's the thing--we're not browning it, we just want to get it translucent and slightly sizzling. As soon as you hear a sizzle, TURN THE DAMN HEAT OFF!! Then, toss in a pinch or three of red pepper flakes. The residual heat will continue to develop the the garlic and pepper flavor. If you brown it, it will go bitter on you.

Drain the pasta when it's ready, and immediately toss in the pan with the oil. Throw it in a bowl and eat it, then continue to eat out of the pan until it's gone.

Serve with slightly chilled leftover red wine from previous night--preferably in a rocks glass or ceramic mug. Chase it with an apple or pear and you have the perfect lunch.

The Super Bowl Miracle

She knew New York would win, she said, it was the feast of St. Blaise', after all. Blaise was her brother who passed away more than twenty years ago, leaving a family of 12, and the oldest boy, also named Blaise, died too young not ten years past. In her mind, you somehow become the saint for whom you're named when you pass, like a giant continuum.

She left the TV on but didn't watch, only listened, as she cleaned out the refrigerator which had more years of filth than you care to know. Three hours it took, she said, cleaning and scrubbing, and in those three hours they won. So she knew...

It wasn't only the refrigerator, though. When I walked into the cramped apartment she grew up in, there were large, black trash bags stacked on the floor, a dozen or more, and I could see the kitchen table-top for the first time in all those years. The thick, gray dust was gone, clothes were hung up, boxes were packed. The dusty, sour smell was finally dissipating...

The patron saint of throat ailments and wild animals turned his attention to an underdog team and a poor old woman trying to reclaim her world. She listened to the plays, but never watched, not until the work was done.

She knew her brother and nephew would watch and wait for her.

I've got a pocket full of pretty green

...I'm going to give it to the man behind the counter
he's gonna give me food and water

I recently heard this song, do you remember it? I heard it on the recent release by Mark Ronson, and my ears pricked up--I knew it but couldn't quite place it. It was a catchy, bouncy rendition evocative of a children's rope skipping rhyme, replete with high, cheery voices. This particular production is what threw me off--it was originally performed by the Jam, and the version as sung by the gruff, nasally Paul Weller, with the spare, percussive, jerky arrangement feels like a different world altogether. The song is a simple, stark assessment of the world of commerce:

And they didn't teach me that in school -
It's something that I learnt on my own -
That power is measured by the pound or the fist -
It's as clear as this oh -

But in the new version by Mark Ronson, the song becomes a nursery rhyme whose origins and meaning are shrouded and sometimes dark, like Ring Around the Rosey, Rock-a-Bye-Baby, or maybe even Pop Goes the Weasel.

Is there safety in the familiarity of a tune? Or was it ever really that dark? Sometimes the incomprehensible chords and strange rhythm of a new song make your ears bristle and wince, or an annoying refrain overshadows a song's deeper meaning. Did you ever notice someone from afar, and think to yourself, "gosh, he looks mean." But when you eventually meet him and get to know him as the good person he inevitably was, you can no longer seem to find that "meanness" in his face you swear you saw in the past?
Is the most beautiful person you know the most beautiful person in the world?

Mapled

For better or worse, I've always been rather willful and contrary--just a quirk of personality born of shyness and (perhaps) benign neglect. This trait manifests itself in a habit of leaving social situations without fanfare or so much as a farewell if I'm not feeling the groove, turned off, or otherwise bored. I would just prefer to slip out unnoticed than burden anyone with any sort of obligation, guilt, or challenge to justify my continued presence. Sometimes it's out of true annoyance or distaste that I leave a social situation, sometimes simple lack of interest, usually something in between. I've left parties, bars, art openings, and concerts over the years--hey, it's my prerogative--the world isn't going to end, is it? Let me save you the energy--I can find the door myself.

A few years ago I attended a concert by a group recommended by bandmates and friends, the band being US Maple (which is not important, as it could have been any number of bands). As the show progressed, I found myself not really connecting with the music; it wasn't bad, it just wasn't speaking to me at that time--to be honest, it struck me as something I'd rather be playing than listening to--if that says anything about my willfulness and contrary nature... Anyway, as my friends closed in on the stage, very much into the performance, I fell back to the edge of the room. Then it struck me (as it does from time to time): I'm not really enjoying myself, maybe I should just leave... And leave I did, tossing my beer in the trash and pushing open the exit, glad to be free of the music and the obligation.

The next day, amid an exchange of emails, my friends realized that I had left, well, earlier than they thought. Talking about it later to Mrs. 'tini, the term "Mapled" was coined; referring to the act of leaving a social situation unannounced, prematurely, and slightly annoyed.

Super-e-bola

Football puts me to sleep, as do most televised sports. I could be bouncing off the wall one moment, turn the TV on and before you know it, the drone of the unending chattering, crowd noise, and loooooong commercial breaks have all come together like a magical sleep-inducing spell. I know it's supposed to be exciting--and I'm sure it is--at least for the guys actually playing, but for me I might as well be watching an ant hill with a soundtrack recording of Niagara Falls.
Like so much, it's aesthetics. I have nothing against football or sports in general, but the association of a certain aesthetic (the look and sound of televised sports) combined with early experiences (lack of interest or understanding) has turned me off to the experience. I think we all have experiences combined with aesthetics which have turned us off or prejudiced us to specific things--certain types of movies, reading in general, various kinds of music--how many times have we heard the words, "I hate ____ music!", referring to a specific style or sound? What was the association which turned off the individual to such a broad range of experience?

Voices in the Night

...like constant, frantic conversation, and nervous shuffling about, and the rattling of furniture and god knows what from another room. That's what the winds sounded like last night, the incredibly high, gusting winds, marking a rise from the 30's to the mid 50's, and then a steep drop to about 13 degrees, all within a few hours. Between the noise and the anxiety of the severe damage which might be caused to the house, it was a fitful night.
Sometimes nature seems to burst at the seems, behaving in ways it's not "supposed" to. It's those moments that make you wonder how we ever made it this far.

"A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints" part II

On a critical level, one could find certain flaws with Dito Montiel's "A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints"; a tighter edit, a more focused expansion on main themes, etc. So let's get that shit right out front so nobody accuses me of being a sycophant.
Now...
"A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints" is a memoir, a riff, a road opus and beat anthem, a time and a place, and an internal wide-eyed joy ride. Every once in a while a book shimmers with sheer enthusiasm and joy, a rare earnestness and love... and this is one of them. Like Michael DeCapite's "Through the Windshield" and with nods to Kerouac, Montiel composes a memoir rich in the real flavor of his hometown neighborhoods and deep affection for his fatally flawed friends, acquaintances, and lovers, right alongside his own flaws, all the while finding the inspiration in these unlikely "saints".

'twas beauty

that killed the beast; or so said a straight-faced Jack Black at the end of King Kong. My daughter, a big fan of School of Rock, and I were watching the dramatic ending of the movie last night, and when we saw Mr. Black appear, she turned and said, "huh?"
Mr. Black's brilliant comic powers, and animal magnetism aside, the hulking Kong reminded me more of our dog than any "beast", so to speak. With his big black nose, complete devotion to the lady of the house, and the inexplicable ability to only flee in one direction--not necessarily the best direction, our over sized Rottweiler mix is his own King Kong, misunderstood--scaring the neighbors while hopelessly lovable and devoted.

Grist for the Food Mill

... not the food processor.
Which is where the roasted tomatoes, garlic, and onion need to go--the food mill, that is. Food processors do a wonderful job of turning everything into a puree--problem is, you may not want everything pureed. In this case, after developing the sweet and fruity flavors of the tomatoes by roasting, I wanted to separate out the skin and seeds, which only contribute bitterness to the final sauce. The food mill takes extra work, but the subtleties in flavor are worth it. We call it food "preparation" because there is a process, a finesse, which takes it from raw ingredients to a meal. It may be a simple process, but with a purpose and intent; grist for the mill--but choose the right mill for the job.

Only a hardcore Clevelander would like...

... a day like today. Or not even. Bitter cold, wet and snowy, and a deep blue-gray dimness soaks the day.

My daughter hates the cold, and she hates the relentless heat and blaring sun in the summer. Somewhere moderate and slightly temperate is in her bones. Me, I've always taken it in stride--I've been here all my life, in Cleveland. I think that after a certain point it became an evocative link to other memories--weather and light do that--conjure up previous times and moods in the same conditions. If one were to switch to a drastically different climate after spending half his life in another, what would become of those memories? What would trigger them? Would nostalgia fade or grow stronger? Or simply become confused, like a puppy in his first snow?

"A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints"

...written and directed by Dito Montiel. Sometimes a movie comes out of nowhere and hits me upside the head...

More later--I will go read the book.

Fatty Butt (part II)

...so the beauty of a cut like this is all of the marbled fat which flavors it. You can keep your lean-ass chops, in fact, you may as well eat tofu! If you're gonna die from meat, make it fatty.

After eight hours of slow roasting, the rosemary and garlic infused meat was falling off the bone. A quick sauce was deglazed and reduced from the sugary-spicy drippings, and all was right with the world. A potato gratin, rich with Pecorino Romano, cream, and parsely, and a salad of grape tomatoes and cucumbers rounded fatty out. Carmenere/Cab was a good choice to brace the richness.

Fatty Butt

... or shoulder, or something. It's a sleeper of a cut, just a fatty, bone-in pork shoulder butt; cheap as hell, but with the promise of an unforgettable night. This fella started out early this morning, poked and stabbed, and studded with slivers of garlic and sprigs of rosemary. Then we rolled him in a rub of brown sugar, sea salt, cayenne, and black pepper, and let him catch his breath for an hour or two. Next, into the oven at about 225.
Slowly. Slow. slow.



He needs a good eight hours, really.


More later

Manwich, it's more than a...

..."sounds like you're eating human" says the oldest. "Why is it called 'Manwich'?" they want to know...

Missus explains that it's from a time when housewives were told that the way to keep their men was to make them big, fattening, simple meals. Sandwich?? heck, dear, here's a MANWICH!

I piped in, "Sounds more like it has '70's gay disco overtones...".









I swear to you--both girls started laughing...

It's somewhere I'm not...

...the Mantini, that is--at least not always.

It's the place to go after hours or between clients to refresh and recreate. If you need a bite to eat or just something to chew on, you may find it here. Let me get you a drink--the first round is on the house.