After Ron and I had spent an hour or so listening to "The Retro Cocktail Hour" (best song of the night: "Danger in Go-Go Boots"), we flipped on the telly and happened upon the Eukanuba Dog Show. My favorite category was on: Toy Dogs. Most of them are too darn cute, even if they do spend five times longer on their hair than me. But it's obviously totally worth it. The way they prance around! And once they've been thoroughly inspected by the judge (Ron and I think they need to start training new judges because all of these dowagers are at least 85, still tottering around, peering into mouths and feeling unmentionable things), the dogs are put down on the floor to strut their stuff and they ALL shake themselves - I think it's to fluff out their hair again. This one female handler was nervously combing the dog's hair as the judge was approaching and when she was finished combing, she stuck the comb in HER hair. Yikes.
But perhaps THE BEST twenty seconds of the night was when this male handler was teasing his dog with a yummy doggy treat and then, I don't know, either he thought the treat was a Hershey Kiss or he just got really flustered by the judge's hands and their close proximity to the dog's jewels . . . he popped the treat INTO HIS OWN MOUTH. If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. And then once they got to the trotting portion the handler spit the soggy mess back into his hand. I didn't see it at first, but all of the sudden Ron started yelling, "HE SAW IT, TOO!" I made him rewind it (again, the glories of dvr) and sure enough, the guy pops the treat into his mouth and the camera immediately cut to a shot of a man in the audience with a very confused look on his face, as if to say "Did that handler just . . . no, he wouldn't . . . oh, that poor dog" and then we see the man spit it out again. Well, I got to laughing so hard I seriously thought I was going to die because I couldn't breathe. I needed someone to slap me, but Ron was laughing, too, and I couldn't get his attention because - like I said - I couldn't breathe. I hadn't laughed that long since Alan Arkin was enlightening everyone in the car about the randiness of the ladies at the old folks' home in "Little Miss Sunshine."
Finally, if for some reason - like you've been in outer space for the last ten years - you haven't seen "Best In Show" you simply must. End of story.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The First Cut
I know, I know . . . Rod Stewart's song immediately comes to mind, but this has nothing to do with, well, you know.
It's about knives! I've become hooked on "Good Eats," hosted by Alton Brown on the Food Network. If you're dying to get some good culinary knowledge in a condensed, entertaining (albeit sometimes corny) manner, "Good Eats" is a sure bet.
The other night, Alton was elucidating on the finer points (!) of knife sharpening. Come to find out that the long sharpening weapon that came with our knives really doesn't do a lot of sharpening. Rather it brings the blade back into alignment. Every time your knife hits the cutting service it gets a little skewed. He recommended taking your knives to a professional sharpener. His knife guy happens to have a van outfitted with all the tools of the trade, which allows him to make house calls. How nice. I put Ron to the task of finding a knife sharpener and we found one. The Ambrosi Brothers (located around 30th & Main). For three bucks a blade we have pretty much a brand new set of knives. How very nice.
Ron mentioned my knife sharpening experience to a co-worker, who said that his wife would cut off an extremity (or two) if she had sharp knives. Well, what do you know? If you're going to slice yourself, it's much better to do it with a really sharp knife; dull ones leave jagged edges, slowing down the healing process (or making reattachment much harder!).
Now I can slice and dice til the cows come home. But, if they're smart (or happy) cows, they might want to step away from the blade.
It's about knives! I've become hooked on "Good Eats," hosted by Alton Brown on the Food Network. If you're dying to get some good culinary knowledge in a condensed, entertaining (albeit sometimes corny) manner, "Good Eats" is a sure bet.
The other night, Alton was elucidating on the finer points (!) of knife sharpening. Come to find out that the long sharpening weapon that came with our knives really doesn't do a lot of sharpening. Rather it brings the blade back into alignment. Every time your knife hits the cutting service it gets a little skewed. He recommended taking your knives to a professional sharpener. His knife guy happens to have a van outfitted with all the tools of the trade, which allows him to make house calls. How nice. I put Ron to the task of finding a knife sharpener and we found one. The Ambrosi Brothers (located around 30th & Main). For three bucks a blade we have pretty much a brand new set of knives. How very nice.
Ron mentioned my knife sharpening experience to a co-worker, who said that his wife would cut off an extremity (or two) if she had sharp knives. Well, what do you know? If you're going to slice yourself, it's much better to do it with a really sharp knife; dull ones leave jagged edges, slowing down the healing process (or making reattachment much harder!).
Now I can slice and dice til the cows come home. But, if they're smart (or happy) cows, they might want to step away from the blade.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Chef du Jour
I don't know why I'm like this, but I pretty much know what Ron gets me for every gift giving occasion before I even open the present. It's a curse, really. I wish I didn't know. It's not like I set out to figure it out. It just happens. This year, of course, was no exception. A couple of weeks before Christmas I saw a rather large package underneath the tree. By the time I had walked into the kitchen I knew what it was. A Cuisinart. A BIG one. I have a little baby one, but just a few weeks earlier we were watching "Barefoot Contessa" and she was using one to grate parmesan cheese. Because we have gone through a couple of cheese graters I said, "Now it would be nice to have a big one for that."
So, there it was, under the tree. I truly appreciate Ron's thoughtfulness, but I had to tell him to take it back. We have a galley kitchen with not a lot of storage and all I could think of is that we'd have no place to store it. And that I'd maybe use it once or twice a year. So, crestfallen, he returned it. "I'll get something for both of us," I offered.
I got us classes as the Kansas City Culinary Center, located in downtown Overland Park. If you haven't had occasion to drop by you really should. It's beautiful and always smells really yummy. They have a wide variety of classes, from beginner to experienced and many of them are hands-on. We had our first class tonight: Soups and Stocks. The perfect way to spend a snowy winter evening. Our teacher was Chef Cody Hogan, the Chef de Cuisine at Lidia's. It was a small class (only nine people) and in the span of two and a half hours, Cody whipped up chicken stock, vegetable stock, a potato soup base and, eventually four or five different soups. Oh, and we had a hummus/pesto appetizer that put me back in Italy in seconds. And, in a freestyle moment, Cody took some of the veggies he used in the stock and made a "salad" with a red wine viniagrette, which was really simple and unbelievably delicious. He also told us how he cooks chicken in his fireplace hanging from a string. Ron Martin was all over that. I'm sure we'll have a chicken hanging in our fireplace soon.
The only downside . . . he used a Cuisinart . . . made me kinda want one.
So, there it was, under the tree. I truly appreciate Ron's thoughtfulness, but I had to tell him to take it back. We have a galley kitchen with not a lot of storage and all I could think of is that we'd have no place to store it. And that I'd maybe use it once or twice a year. So, crestfallen, he returned it. "I'll get something for both of us," I offered.
I got us classes as the Kansas City Culinary Center, located in downtown Overland Park. If you haven't had occasion to drop by you really should. It's beautiful and always smells really yummy. They have a wide variety of classes, from beginner to experienced and many of them are hands-on. We had our first class tonight: Soups and Stocks. The perfect way to spend a snowy winter evening. Our teacher was Chef Cody Hogan, the Chef de Cuisine at Lidia's. It was a small class (only nine people) and in the span of two and a half hours, Cody whipped up chicken stock, vegetable stock, a potato soup base and, eventually four or five different soups. Oh, and we had a hummus/pesto appetizer that put me back in Italy in seconds. And, in a freestyle moment, Cody took some of the veggies he used in the stock and made a "salad" with a red wine viniagrette, which was really simple and unbelievably delicious. He also told us how he cooks chicken in his fireplace hanging from a string. Ron Martin was all over that. I'm sure we'll have a chicken hanging in our fireplace soon.
The only downside . . . he used a Cuisinart . . . made me kinda want one.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Proof
I now have proof positive that there's a group of people somewhere who sit around all day, making lists of ridiculous things they should wantonly throw money at (I know, horrible syntax, but I'm irritated and it takes too much effort to think in grammatically correct terms).
Case in Point: There's a movie (a documentary, actually) titled "Helvetica." And, yes, it's all about the font.
As soon as I get the address of this group of people who sit around all day, making lists of ridiculous things they should throw money at I'm going to write them a letter and tell them I want to make a documentary about . . . well, why not? My ability to recognize fonts on sight. It will be the much anticipated sequel of "Helvetica." If you don't hear from me for awhile it will be because I'm doing research at the European Font Museum. Which is located in a large villa in a tiny hamlet in Tuscany.
'Giorno.
P.S. I did NOT put "Helvetica" in my Netflix queue.
Case in Point: There's a movie (a documentary, actually) titled "Helvetica." And, yes, it's all about the font.
As soon as I get the address of this group of people who sit around all day, making lists of ridiculous things they should throw money at I'm going to write them a letter and tell them I want to make a documentary about . . . well, why not? My ability to recognize fonts on sight. It will be the much anticipated sequel of "Helvetica." If you don't hear from me for awhile it will be because I'm doing research at the European Font Museum. Which is located in a large villa in a tiny hamlet in Tuscany.
'Giorno.
P.S. I did NOT put "Helvetica" in my Netflix queue.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Hawking
After weathering the last few frigid days, Ron and I took advantage of the balmy weather to head south and visit Tyler at Emporia. And count hawks. The latter experience was purely serendipitous, as we had no formal intention of counting hawks - it just kind of happened.
Today was fine hawk counting weather. Clear skies, cool breezes. They're fairly easy to spot. Just look for a dark spot (with the telltale white breast) perching high in leafless trees. I'm kind of amazed that those tiny branches near the top of the trees are able to hold such big birds. I was thinking they must weigh about 15 pounds, but then I remembered the turkey we had for Christmas and it was 17 pounds (give or take a few ounces) and these hawks were nowhere near that big. Actually, we had ham for Christmas, so it must have been our Thanksgiving turkey. But, I digress. I really don't know how much they weigh. It just seems to be more than the average tiny tree branch should be able to support.
A lot of hawks seem to enjoy being right next to the road. Ron wondered aloud why this might be so, and I suggested it's because they know bored people like us like to count them. Or name them, like my dad used to do when he and mom would drive from Rogers, AR to Merriam. They all had "H" names: Harry, Horatio, Heloise, Henrietta, Hubert, Helen . . .
I said that maybe they sat near the roads so they could have a bird's eye view (ha) of the acres that no doubt hold tasty morsels of field mice. But, as Ron pointed out, nearly all of them have their backs to the fields. I then went into the whole "the grass is always greener on the other side of the highway" theory.
And that was pretty much the flavor of our conversation during the entirety of our trip.
Scintillating, ain't it?
Today was fine hawk counting weather. Clear skies, cool breezes. They're fairly easy to spot. Just look for a dark spot (with the telltale white breast) perching high in leafless trees. I'm kind of amazed that those tiny branches near the top of the trees are able to hold such big birds. I was thinking they must weigh about 15 pounds, but then I remembered the turkey we had for Christmas and it was 17 pounds (give or take a few ounces) and these hawks were nowhere near that big. Actually, we had ham for Christmas, so it must have been our Thanksgiving turkey. But, I digress. I really don't know how much they weigh. It just seems to be more than the average tiny tree branch should be able to support.
A lot of hawks seem to enjoy being right next to the road. Ron wondered aloud why this might be so, and I suggested it's because they know bored people like us like to count them. Or name them, like my dad used to do when he and mom would drive from Rogers, AR to Merriam. They all had "H" names: Harry, Horatio, Heloise, Henrietta, Hubert, Helen . . .
I said that maybe they sat near the roads so they could have a bird's eye view (ha) of the acres that no doubt hold tasty morsels of field mice. But, as Ron pointed out, nearly all of them have their backs to the fields. I then went into the whole "the grass is always greener on the other side of the highway" theory.
And that was pretty much the flavor of our conversation during the entirety of our trip.
Scintillating, ain't it?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Outrageous
I don't know what's more outrageous . . . the writer's strike that's leading network television into the Bermuda Triangle, where it will never heard from again, OR the crazy stuff I'm forced to watch because my body automatically sits itself down in front of the tv every night - an activity which is going to lead to a herniated brain and a permanent mental fugue if I'm not careful. As if "The Lobotomist" wasn't enough . . .
Tonight, on the History Channel, Ron and I watched "Gangland" a series about - no big surprise - gangs. Tonight's episode was on gangs in the military. That's right. According to the show, about one percent of our current military personnel are members of gangs. Doesn't sound like a lot, right? Except one percent is about 10,000 people. Now, I'm aware that there's a chance that not every statistic put forth in this documentary is completely accurate. However (and the narrator pointed this out several times during the hour), the Department of Defense (DOD) declined numerous invitations to appear on the program. And they probably could have provided more accurate information, had they been so inclined - which I'm sure wouldn't have happened because that would be admitting that there actually IS a problem with gangs in the military.
They had all sorts of ex-military personnel and former DOD employees saying that these gang members - whose loyalty lies not with America or their fellow soldiers, but with their gangs - are being trained and equipped during their enlistment and then return to their hoods to teach their homies all these military tactics. They had footage of an ex-Marine using military techniques to ambush three police officers (one was killed, another seriously wounded). It was very disturbing.
There was also this one guy who's with the National Guard who's taken pictures of gang graffiti he saw in military bases overseas. All of the major gangs in the United States are represented.
Even more appalling . . . in 2006 (it may have been 2005 or 2007 - I was too dumbstruck to rewind to find out) 9,000 moral waivers were granted to men and women applying to serve in our armed services, including waivers for FELONIES. That's SIXTY-FIVE PERCENT MORE than in 2003, the year we invaded Iraq. So, I'm thinking that the 99 percent of men and women who are bravely risking their lives in posts all over the world now have to live with the fact that they might be bunking with a felon. Am I crazy or is there something not right about that?
I guess there is good news. Apparently, there's a bill before Congress right now that includes language that would prohibit persons with known gang affiliations from entering into the military.
Of course, it has to be passed first and it's probably buried in some bill that would completely restructure the health insurance industry and provide every man, woman and child with good, affordable health care. Oh, wait. I think I see that piece of legislation taking a turn for the Bermuda Triangle as well.
Tonight, on the History Channel, Ron and I watched "Gangland" a series about - no big surprise - gangs. Tonight's episode was on gangs in the military. That's right. According to the show, about one percent of our current military personnel are members of gangs. Doesn't sound like a lot, right? Except one percent is about 10,000 people. Now, I'm aware that there's a chance that not every statistic put forth in this documentary is completely accurate. However (and the narrator pointed this out several times during the hour), the Department of Defense (DOD) declined numerous invitations to appear on the program. And they probably could have provided more accurate information, had they been so inclined - which I'm sure wouldn't have happened because that would be admitting that there actually IS a problem with gangs in the military.
They had all sorts of ex-military personnel and former DOD employees saying that these gang members - whose loyalty lies not with America or their fellow soldiers, but with their gangs - are being trained and equipped during their enlistment and then return to their hoods to teach their homies all these military tactics. They had footage of an ex-Marine using military techniques to ambush three police officers (one was killed, another seriously wounded). It was very disturbing.
There was also this one guy who's with the National Guard who's taken pictures of gang graffiti he saw in military bases overseas. All of the major gangs in the United States are represented.
Even more appalling . . . in 2006 (it may have been 2005 or 2007 - I was too dumbstruck to rewind to find out) 9,000 moral waivers were granted to men and women applying to serve in our armed services, including waivers for FELONIES. That's SIXTY-FIVE PERCENT MORE than in 2003, the year we invaded Iraq. So, I'm thinking that the 99 percent of men and women who are bravely risking their lives in posts all over the world now have to live with the fact that they might be bunking with a felon. Am I crazy or is there something not right about that?
I guess there is good news. Apparently, there's a bill before Congress right now that includes language that would prohibit persons with known gang affiliations from entering into the military.
Of course, it has to be passed first and it's probably buried in some bill that would completely restructure the health insurance industry and provide every man, woman and child with good, affordable health care. Oh, wait. I think I see that piece of legislation taking a turn for the Bermuda Triangle as well.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Inspired . . .
New Year, new look? Maybe. Bored with the circles? Probably. So, out with the old, in with the new. New photos, new amazing photography links. Perhaps a little more regularity with the postings? We'll see.
I watched a show on PBS about a man called "The Lobotomist." The man was driven to drive ice picks through people's eyes into their brains. It was - all at once - fascinating, horrifying, sad, appalling, bizarre and, in the end, really, really ineffective and grossly overdone. What was once used as a means to "calm down" the most agitated mentally ill people turned into a way to thin out overpopulated state mental institutions. Had drugs (specifically Thorazine) not come to the rescue in the 60's who knows how many of us would be walking around lobotomized. That's not supposed to be funny. How many people do you know who are on some kind of antidepressant? It's a scary thought.
Sweet dreams . . .
I watched a show on PBS about a man called "The Lobotomist." The man was driven to drive ice picks through people's eyes into their brains. It was - all at once - fascinating, horrifying, sad, appalling, bizarre and, in the end, really, really ineffective and grossly overdone. What was once used as a means to "calm down" the most agitated mentally ill people turned into a way to thin out overpopulated state mental institutions. Had drugs (specifically Thorazine) not come to the rescue in the 60's who knows how many of us would be walking around lobotomized. That's not supposed to be funny. How many people do you know who are on some kind of antidepressant? It's a scary thought.
Sweet dreams . . .
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