The Big Green House

You can tune a piano...

Why do people insist on saying “tunafish”? Does “tuna” not imply “fish”? Are there, in fact, tunagoats? Tunabirds, perhaps? After all, it is the chicken of the sea. Or so I’m told. I don’t eat the stuff myself. Not canned, anyway. A nice tuna steak every now and again, absolutely.

I used to have a recipe for a lime-soy sauce marinade that was just amazing on tuna steak. You’d marinate the steak for about eight hours and then throw it on the grill. Alas, I lost the recipe while moving from one house to another.

Tuna sushi is pretty yummy, too. Ahi, I think it’s called. I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to sushi. (Well, that and a multitude of other things.) I’m more of a donburi kinda guy. Oyako-don, specifically.

When I was living in Sacramento, I used to live right around the corner from a little Japanese restaurant called Moko. Last time I was in Sac. I tried to take Science Girl & my mom there for lunch, but it no longer exists. I miss it. Great food, and pretty inexpensive, too. I ate there so often that they’d usually have my large Kirin open and waiting for me before I even sat down. My Latino friends would get kinda weirded out when I’d invite them to eat there, though. This confused me to no end, as they had no problem going to other Japanese places with me. Then one of them pointed out that the word moko in Spanish means “booger”.

Oh. Yeah, that would be kinda unpleasant, I guess.

These days, I eat a lot more Thai food than I do Japanese, mostly because Thai seems to be everywhere. Granted, there are a lot of teriyaki joints in Seattle. Most of them are more or less the equivalent of fast food, so we only have it every now and again.

Can you tell I’ve run out of things to say?

The emperor's glass is empty

Robert Parker has feet of clay?

Helen Turley is scaring off potential employers?

Could this be the beginning of the end?

Well, let’s not all run out and break into “Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead” just yet. Parker, for whatever unfathomable reason, still wields a lot of clout in the world of wine. Many people with more money than sense apparently need to be told what they like. These same people think the sun shines out of Parker’s ass. Consequently, when he says “Shit!”, wine makers the world over say “What color?” Not all of them, thankfully, but enough so that regional styles are beginning to fall by the wayside.

As long as high Parker ratings mean huge markup, winery owners will still be willing to sell their souls (or complete control over their vineyards and wineries AND 20% of gross) to get Turley to make their wine. She makes wine that Parker likes. A lot.

I did a little research on Turley today and came across this little gem, from two years ago. She doesn’t come off as someone I’d want to deal with, frankly; she’s a little full of herself, for one thing, and I find it ridiculous that a hired gun can come in and basically tell the owner to fuck off out of the way, thank you very much, this is what your wine is going to be like. It’s the height of arrogance.

The issue of wine and class is raised in that article, too. From the article:
Though Turley hates the term cult—"it reminds me of Jim Jones"—she does seem to think that her wines should be reserved for a few committed believers. "Fine wine is not a mass-market activity," she insists. If she had her way, her wines would be kept off restaurant wine lists altogether and offered only to those customers deemed worthy of appreciating them, though at a lower price than restaurants usually charge.

There are always going to be expensive bottlings that the average person with an interest in wine will never be able to afford. I understand that. At the same time, I think the pricing on a lot of wine is somewhat out of touch with reality. Less so than in the 90’s, of course, but it’s still a problem. But what really gets me worked up is the elitism which Turley and Parker and their ilk so often display, the idea that only a select few are capable of comprehending the complexity of a good wine. I would dearly love to smash that mentality, burn it down to the ground and piss on the ashes. It’s just flat-out bullshit that keeps so many otherwise intelligent people intimidated, almost fearful, around something that should only bring pleasure.

Parker and Turley may not be on the way out yet. But a boy can dream, can’t he?

How to avoid taco hell

Added 3/24/07: Since I still get a lot of hits on this particular piece from people wanting to know how to steam tortillas, I wanted to update the information I have on that subject. Further research has shown that steaming them in the microwave for about 30 seconds, rather than the five to seven seconds I originally suggested, is the best approach. Everything else stands as written.

Today’s topic is tacos. Specifically, how I make them. Any questions before we begin?

Are they authentic?

Um, how do you mean?

Is it an authentic Mexican recipe?

Ah, I see. I was afraid we were gonna have to get into the whole “what is the nature of reality” thing. No, they are not authentic Mexican tacos. Which is only fitting, since I am not an authentic Mexican. They are authentic white boy tacos, though.

Well now, wait just a minute. I thought those just required a packet of sauce mix from the grocery store.

Good point. That’s the kind I grew up with myself. These are somewhat similar, although it’s all done from scratch. The recipe is a variation on one printed in the March 2002 issue of Cook’s Illustrated.

Is it a low-fat recipe?

To a certain degree. We use ground turkey instead of beef, so that saves some fat right there. Also, we like to steam the tortillas briefly in the microwave rather than frying them. You could use low-fat cheese if you want to, although in my experience that stuff bears only a passing resemblance to any known dairy product. Oh, speaking of which – sour cream on Mexican food, whether “authentic” or anglicized, is an abomination. That said, if you absolutely must use it, Science Girl says low-fat* is the way to go.

Are they low-carb tacos?

How the fuck would I know? Er… no, probably not. I suppose you could just skip the tortilla and eat a bowl of meat, but… look, your body needs carbohydrate in order to function correctly. Just this once, drop the Atkins-nazi shit and live a little. I won’t tell anybody if you don’t.

Shall we begin?

Where everybody knows your name

Science Girl and I were discussing the, um, monthly joys of womanhood the other day. We decided that pre-menstrual and menstruating women constitute two vastly underserved groups, with regard to conceptual restaurants. Thus was born the idea of creating a dining/bar experience for those so desperately in need of a good time.

My friends, I give you P.M.S. Friday’s.

Seating areas would be divided into “crying” and “non-crying” sections. All waitstaff would be trained counselors as well as experienced servers. We haven’t quite worked out the menu yet, but it would feature lots of comfort food, heavy on the salty &/or chocolatey. In fact, our signature drink would be the chocolate margarita – it’s still on the drawing board, but it would probably be something like chocolate liqueur, Cointreau or Grand Marnier, a silver tequila, and maybe a little Yoo-Hoo. Blend with ice. Frost the rim of a double martini glass with salt, garnish with orange peel.

Did I mention the complimentary Midol at happy hour? (By the way, we’re still looking for investors, so you folks at Bayer have an opportunity to get in on the ground floor. Ditto for the good people at Tampax.)

Entitled to eat

Hey, go read this thread and the accompanying comments, right now. Many good points made. I think the problem is probably an amalgam of economics and culture, myself, but I have no time to discuss it right now. My own personal economics demand that I remain part of the culture of the employed.

Why isn't it orange?

It’s the end of the month, kids, so I’ve got lots of unpleasantness piled up on my desk tonight. I will mention two quick things, and then I must stick my head back down the wolf’s throat:

1) It was 80 molly-frocking degrees today, which is mighty gosh darn warm for this early in the year.

2) I made macaroni and cheese from scratch this weekend, which I think makes me the first Markey to do so since Kraft introduced those boxes of orange powder back in the thirties. Given that A) I haven’t even attempted a white sauce since sometime in the mid-eighties, and B) neither Science Girl nor myself have died since ingesting said sauce, I’m feeling relatively proud of myself.

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.

Zin rant*

OK. I think I’m going to expand a little on the previous post. I haven’t gotten a good rant on in some time; maybe it will help clear out the pipes a bit.

As I think I’ve mentioned a few times here, I learned how to drink red wine by drinking zinfandel. It is, therefore, a wine near and dear to what passes for my heart. And one of the characteristics I love about that particular grape is the rough & ready nature of the wine that comes from it. As my Mom put it once, “You like those wines that you can scrape off your tongue three days later”. How well she knows her son.

So it’s a real disappointment to bring home a zin I’ve never had before, only to find out that it’s been emasculated, for lack of a more descriptive term, in some ill-conceived attempt to please Robert Parker, a man who has single-handedly ruined much of what was interesting and vital about American wines in general and California wines in particular. Head’s up, kids – fruity and jammy and alcohol-hot is not the be-all and end-all, and you can kiss my rosy pink ass if you think otherwise. Zinfandel should taste like zinfandel, rough and rustic, peppery and inky - good, in a word - not like some weak-sister merlot, for chrissakes. If I wanted my wine to taste like a glass full of raspberry jam (Ravenswood, I’m looking at you; “no wimpy wines” my ass!) chased with grain alcohol (you too, Seghesio), then by god I’d save myself some money and mix up such a concoction myself. Don’t get me wrong, now. Fruit has its place, of course, but come on; if that and a high alcohol content are all you’ve got to show me then give your grapes to someone who knows what to do with them and stop wasting everyone’s time. I want a wine with character, one with some backbone to it, and I know I’m not alone.

This piece used to be titled "seven deadly zins". Clever, eh? Well, I forgot that there is a wine by the same name. I've never tasted it, so consequently I have no idea if it's anything like the wines mentioned above. When people started googling for it and ending up here, it didn't seem fair to associate a wine I knew nothing about with my cranky little screed. Hence, the new title.

A loaf of wine, a jug of bread, and how

Well, I just don’t have anything to say at the moment. I’m feeling a bit better, just very very tired.

Oh, wait a minute. I want to whole-heartedly recommend the Noceto sangiovese. Last night with dinner we had a bottle of their ’99 Riserva that we’d picked up last time we were down visiting Mom & Dad. It was just getting to the point where it was loosing its edge, but it had just the barest hint of a bite to it still. I’d been saving the bottle for a “special occasion”, but what could be more special than Sunday dinner? I’m glad we drank it before it had gone soft altogether, as it was quite yummy. Not one of those goddamned fruit bombs that taste like fucking Boone’s Farm, nor some high-alcohol hammerhead that knocks you on your ass after one glass; rather, it was a fine example (in my next-to-useless opinion) of a winemaker getting out of the way and letting the grapes express themselves. The folks at the winery were really nice when we visited there, so I was glad to see that our local wineshop carries one of their wines these days. Yay!

That’s it.

Hold on. Um, also, the rosemary-garlic bread at Three Girls Bakery down in The Market is pretty great, too.

OK, that’s all. Really. Go away.

Cartoons and booze are the way to my heart

Once again, Science Girl has proven herself to be the bestest girlfriend in the whole wide world. She spent some time downtown today running errands. While she was out and about, she happened to pass the FAO Schwarz, which, as you may have heard, is going out of business. Apparently, she was unable to resist the lure of discount toys.

I ask you, in all honesty: who could?

While she was there, she saw a Squidward doll (I’m guessing something like this) and picked it up for me. This was very clever on her part. From the first time I ever saw Spongebob Squarepants, I immediately identified with Squidward, the irritable cashier with artistic pretensions. He essentially is me, back when I was working retail and/or food service. My skin is not quite so greenish-gray, I don’t have four legs and I usually wear pants, but otherwise it’s pretty difficult to tell us apart.

As if that weren’t enough, she also bought me a bottle of Salignac cognac. I’m not familiar with that particular brand, but what the hey? When it comes to drinks, I’m always game to try something new. We had some Hennessy a couple of weeks ago, which was quite nice. It was also SG’s initiation into the world of cognac; looks like it took.

OK, let’s see a show of hands: who else was given swanky imported liquor and a grumpy cartoon totem today? No one? That’s what I thought.