The Big Green House

Me am cook on bizzarro world

I spent a relatively large portion of this weekend cooking. (Other portions were spent sleeping, drinking wine, eating, pulling up some of the seventy billion maple seedlings that have sprung up in the back yard, driving, walking on the beach with Science Girl, and walking the dog. Just in the interest of full disclosure, y’know.) It’s nice to be in front of the stove again. I went through a period where I either didn’t feel like cooking or couldn’t think of anything I wanted to make. I’m not sure what that was about, but it seems to have passed. SG has been very gracious about picking up my slack, and we’ve been eating out a little more than usual, too.

The first time through a recipe I try to follow it to the letter, just to see what the writer was getting at; on my next pass, I feel free to improvise off of their original riff. Saturday I tried out a recipe for shrimp with feta in tomato sauce. It was OK, I guess, tasting more like prawns in cocktail sauce than anything else. I think next time I’ll add more cayenne and garlic. (I should have known one clove wasn’t going to be enough.) The spinach salad was pretty good, although I’ll be toasting the pine nuts in the oven next time, rather than sautéing in butter. It seemed like a good idea at the time – and it wasn’t bad, just not worth the effort.

We finished the shrimp at lunch on Sunday; spending the night in the fridge seemed to help things out a little bit. Science Girl made some of her fabulous hummous; she bases her recipe on this one. Yummy, and much better than my tired little crustaceans.

Since we had some spinach left over, I decided to make spanikopita. The recipe I used was somewhat similar to this, although I used fresh spinach (steamed until just wilting), omitted the venison (?) and dill, and brushed the phyllo with olive oil instead of butter. I’ve always been leery of using phyllo; I have a pretty strong memory of my mom being brought to tears by a three-foot-long sheet of dough while trying to make baklava for Xmas, sometime in the mid-seventies. I am happy to report that phyllo comes in a much more manageable size these days. Of course, you have to let it thaw for two hours before you can use it – something I didn’t take into account while preparing the spinach mix.

If you’ll go over to your dictionary now, look up the word “dolt” and take a moment to admire the portrait they made of me for the illustration.

Fortunately, we weren’t counting on just the spanikopita for dinner. I’d found a recipe for chicken in wine and lemon in the same book (the Craig Claibourne I mentioned here), so I got going on that and some rice and steamed broccoli, and stuck the spinach mixture in the fridge until after dinner. The chicken was very simple (chicken, butter, scallion, lemon slices, white wine), very quick to put together, and pretty tasty, too.

SG was very gracious about my little meal-time debacle, refraining from braining me with the skillet or even saying anything nasty. Thanks, sweetie. Once we’d finished dinner, I took the now thawed phyllo and constructed my spanikopita, stuck it in the oven and hoped for the best. It actually came out OK, although I think I’ll try to press some of the moisture out of the spinach before I mix it in with the other ingredients next time around. Also, I want to use 7 sheets of phyllo for the top and bottom layers, vs. the 5 called for in the original recipe.

OK, this is a pretty dull post. I admit it. I'm really just making notes to myself more than anything else. I had nothing to go with tonight, so bare with me. I’ll try to have something about the new Modest Mouse CD by the end of the week. Maybe.

Bass is the place

Here’s something I’ve been wondering about for quite some time now: whence cometh all this hate for the bass? You know what I’m talking about – bands like The White Stripes and The Black Keys trying to get by with no bass player. (Hey, are those names coincidental? As your ol’ granny used to say, not bloody likely.) Sleater-Kinney, a band I actually even like, has nobody holding down the bottom end. Why, ladies, why? We can’t all be tops, y’know.

The bass guitar is a magical, mystical instrument. Anyone playing bass automatically has a certain amount of, dare I say it, cool added to whatever they bring with them. (I’m leaving Paul McCartney out of the equation. I’m not going to sully my theory with mere facts.) While the guitarist is wanking merrily away, the singer is sucking all the air out of the room so his/her ego can have a little liebensraum and the drummer is bashing anything that comes within range, there stands the bassist surveying the scene, locking down the groove and emanating wave after wave of frosty coolness. You know it’s true. Male bassists, from Bill Wyman and John Entwistle on, all have a certain aura of je ne sais quoi about them. (Obviously, this is the international edition of TBGH you're reading.) Female bass players get that same coolness boost, plus… man, what is it about them? Does the instrument draw exceptionally attractive women, or does the fact that they’re involved in such a rhythmic pursuit make them ultra-yummy? I don’t know, but I can tell you that when I saw Talking Heads on the Stop Making Sense tour, Tina Weymouth smiled at me* and, uh, I was pretty happy about that. *ahem*

(Science Girl says that this aspect of the bass equation doesn’t necessarily carry over to male bass players. I’d be curious to hear what others have to say about that. My point, though, is that the bass does strange and wonderful things to mere mortals.)

There are, of course, exceptions to this rule of cool. Geddy Lee, for example, will never be cool, and I think he’d be the first to agree with that statement. The first time I ever saw a picture of Mr. Lee, I though to myself, “That is without a doubt the ugliest chick I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” However, and this is an industrial-sized however, he plays the hell out of his chosen axe. Say what you want about his band, mock his singing voice… go on, it’s kinda fun. But when you’re done with the yucks at Geddy’s expense, you have to come back to the root fact that our Canadian friend knows his way around those four strings like a newborn puppy knows the smell of his momma’s teat. It cannot be denied. Talent like that makes cool superfluous, or rather it creates its own subgenre of cool.

The other big exception that springs to mind is Adam Clayton, AKA the luckiest bass holder on the face of the planet. Many people these days carp about Bono’s incredible inflatable ego being the downfall of the group, but I must disagree; as off-putting as Mr. Vox can sometimes be, the weak link in U2 has always been the bass. Always. But hey, he’s got a very good drummer behind him and an amazing guitarist on the other side of the stage, so he’s laughing all the way to the bank.

But I digress.

The Dirtbombs know the power of the bass, and have taken it to heart; that’s why they have two (count ‘em) plank spankers at all times. The world needs bass players; without ‘em , you’re stuck with someone like Meg White to provide your rhythms. While I’m sure she’s a nice person and all, she couldn’t keep time with a stopwatch. C’mon, kids. Think Flea, Bootsy, Larry Graham… hell, even Michael Anthony added something to the mix, I guess. The truth of the matter is, we need to see an end to this “no bass” policy, ASAP.

The great and powerful OZ has spoken.

*OK, I know, she could quite possibly have been smiling in my general direction. However, I was right down front, grooving and grinning from ear to ear, and it did seem as if we locked eyes and then she smiled. That’s the way I remember it, and that’s the way I’m gonna continue to remember it. Go piss on somebody else’s parade, why doncha?

I'll leave my skull under the pillow tonight

I’m feeling very simple-minded today… well, more so than usual. I had an idea for a post this afternoon. I talked it with over with Science Girl, and she gave me a few insights into the topic, as usual. She’s a great sounding board, although I think discussing a prospective post with her spoils whatever “fun” there might be for her in reading this drivel.

Then I came to work, sat down at my desk and commenced banging my head on the monitor for the next 5 hours. (Not literally banging my head, of course, as this is a company-owned monitor and any damage to it would certainly come out of my paycheck.) I can only stare at a blank Word document for so long without drawing attention to myself, so unless the brain fairies are making deliveries tonight I think this is probably as close to a post as we’re gonna get. Sorry.

Tales of Pre-Teen Terror

Since I have nothing for tonight, I thought I might regale you with some stupid shit we did back in the day. And when I say “back in the day” this time around, I mean way back in, like, 1971. Mosta you young’uns wasn’t even borned yet, I betcha. Well, sit back in whatever it is you’re sitting in and I’ll try to keep this short. This takes place when I was in the sixth grade.

Simpatico

There was an estate sale in the neighborhood over the weekend. We ran into it while taking Lucy for a walk Friday afternoon. I don’t ordinarily seek such things out; as Science Girl put it, “I always feel like such a ghoul.” Exactly. On the other hand, if the family didn’t want people to show up, they wouldn’t have had the sale in the first place. So, we went in to check it out.

Confidential

To the person who keeps hitting TBGH looking for "Mariette Hartley nude":

Dude. Seriously, I can't help you. In any sense of the word.

Dog day afternoon

Lucy is indeed an Art Star. When we went to the opening Saturday night, Valerie had one of the alternate prints she’d made of Miss Dog up as part of the show, a fetching (no pun intended) little number entitled “All Yours”. One the one hand, I hope it sells; on the other, it would be kinda weird to know that my little dog was hanging on someone else’s wall. Well, now that she’s a celebrity I guess she belongs to the world.

And she’s more than just a pretty face. We took a hike up to Wallace Falls yesterday: 3.3 miles to the Upper Falls, 3.3 miles back, for a total of…. um, hold on a sec… 6.6 miles. Lucy essentially sprinted the whole way. Given how many side trips she made to sniff (apparently) random vegetation, check out what other hikers were having for lunch, etc, I’d guess she covered closer to seven miles, if not more. When Science Girl and I would stop for a rest, she’d scamper ahead to the end of her leash, sniff around a bit, then come back to see if we were ready to go yet. We’re talking about an eleven-pound dog here. I was expecting to carry her at least part of the way down, so I kept a close eye on her all day. She showed absolutely no sign of getting tired, or even slowing down, until we were in the car on the way home.

The hike itself was quite nice. We don’t have a digital camera (I know, we’re living in the Stone Age, blah blah blah), so you’ll have to make do with someone else’s pictures until we take the roll in to be developed. We hit record temperatures here yesterday, so the fact that the trail paralleled the river most of the way up meant that we had a cool breeze blowing across us just about all day. Combine that with the fact that the trail also stays under the shade of what appears to be second-growth trees all the way up, and we had a very comfortable hike. Given the 1200 ft. elevation gain, that’s a good thing.

Having grown up hiking in the Sierra Nevada, where it’s generally pretty dry by the time the trails become hikable for the summer, I’m always amazed at how wet things are here. There were trees covered from root to branch with several inches of moss. (Here, so you can get an idea of what I’m talking about, is somebody else’s picture of the trail.)

The other thing that amazes me is the number of people who absolutely have to stand on the other side of the safety railings on cliffs, waterfalls, etc. I realize it’s just Darwinism waiting to happen, but I don’t especially want to be there to witness it.

I live with a nude model

The building I work in has quarterly art shows. One of my responsibilities is checking in the art as it arrives, which is kinda fun. I get to see what’s going up before anyone else does. Anyway, at one of the recent shows there was an artist whose work was sort of stylized portrayals of dogs. (Sorry, I don’t know from technical art terms.) I asked the artist, Valerie Rosen, if she would be interested in doing a portrait of Lucy for us. She said sure, that she was always looking for models. Since Lucy conducts herself like a model (except at suppertime, when she conducts herself like a vacuum cleaner), this seemed like a great idea. And, in fact, Valerie created a beautiful print of our little dog for us. I’ll try to take a picture of it & post it here at some point.

The reason I bring all this up is that this Saturday evening, she has a new show opening. She’s a nice woman, I like her art, and you should check it out if you’re here in town. If you’re not, you’ll have to make do with what you have there. Sorry.

Fast and loose, with not a hair out of place

In my experience, there are two schools of rock & roll.

O.D.'d on life itself

*pokes head around corner*

Uh, hi. I wasn’t expecting so many of you. Sorry about the mess.

Well, first off, thanks very much to Miss Dana for her exceptionally kind words. She exaggerates, of course. And just for the record, she makes a damn fine mix tape (or disc) herself.

*coughs*

So, anyway. I was gonna write about the first four Blue Oyster Cult albums tonight, but I have to admit that I’d feel like something of an ass if I did so now. Well, more of a one trick pony than an ass, really. I’ll just say that they get progressively better; On Your Feet Or On Your Knees is miles ahead of Blue Oyster Cult, which is itself a decent enough album. (Of course, most of the critics I’ve just linked to would have it the other way around. I have the benefit of hindsight, so neener-neener to them.) The songs are stronger than the production, let’s put it that way.

*crickets chirp*

Yep.

*Tumbleweed blows by*

So… how ‘bout those Mariners?