I left the salt out of the bread I baked yesterday - gack argful. Flat. Tongue-weep. Two weeks' bread (busy bee me makes his own bread, lazy me now makes it in 2 week batched and freezes half) that will want sardines every day to sassy up to snuff.
Am re-reading John Crowley's Little Big and am re-enjoying my favorite book. (This retreat into fantasy I offered as a treat to myself after braving Slavoj Žižek's communist critique of the current financial crisis, First as Tragedy, Then as Farce.)
The 3 tunes I am currently most likely to play when I pick up my ukulele are:
I never have asthma or breathing difficulty in my dreams. Don't always remember to wear my pants, but I can breath fine and run fast.
The 2009 wine is coming along very nicely. Bikey's happy. Yard's looking nice. We're peeking over the horizon, out East and into the home of our old age. Sun's at least an hour off, most days. Listen to the mockingbird (Kobblers style, and very definitely not Mr. Lincoln's downer.)
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Goodbye, Granny D
Doris Haddock has passed away at the age of 100. NYTimes obit is here. Granny D was a prominant character in Lori's 2005 film, This Land is Your Land.
Scene from This Land Is Your Land from Hard Working Movies on Vimeo.
Scene from This Land Is Your Land from Hard Working Movies on Vimeo.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Breaking radio silence for duck confit, G.E. Smith, and David Broza
Which goes something like this:
Feb. 27: Birthday party in Chinatown, sat next to the hostess and on her other hand was G.E. Smith. Our hostess has been to our place once or twice for our big summer celebrate-the-new-wine and putanesca parties, and has obviously wandered into my little room which is shamefully lined with instruments I can barely play, and she has confused the memory of me owning instruments with the idea that she's heard me play them and that I'm damned good. She waxes poetic about my playing, while I stare into the eyes of one of the great contemporary studio guitarists and music directors, and I feel my weenie shrinking until it is werry werry smawl. Mr. Smith is gracious, asks how many ukes I have, and when I say it's an embarrassing number he makes me feel part of the club.
March 1 through March 7: I dip in and out of Ruhlman and Polcyn's Charcuterie, and I decide to try my hand at duck confit.
March 8: I go up to Union Square at lunchtime, thinking I'll check out one of the bookstores. The green market is in full swing - I hardly ever get there on a Monday - and I stumble into the fine people from Hudson Valley Duck Farm. I don't buy a book. I do buy 5 lb. of Moulard duck legs and thighs.
On the evening of the 8th I salt and season the duck (clove, black pepper, garlic).
March 9: I take half the day off, come home, wash and dry the duck, and at 1:35 put it in a 190 F stove in a dutch oven. Goal is to keep it there for 10 hours, rendering all the fat and poaching the meat therein. At 9 PM we're at City Winery to see G.E. Smith back David Broza. (Broza has just released an album of songs that are Townes Van Zandt lyrics willed to Broza, that he's set to music - Night Dawn.) At the end of the concert we boogie out and are home by 11:40. The duck fat has fully rendered, the meat is tender and delicious. I weight the meat under a plate to submerge it in the fat, and stick it in the cellar fridge. Gonna let is sit for a month. Then we'll crisp it in a hot oven and weep. Maybe use the rendered fat to do up some taters to put the duck over, Nu?
Thank you, GE. Thank you, Moe. Thank you everybody in between.
Feb. 27: Birthday party in Chinatown, sat next to the hostess and on her other hand was G.E. Smith. Our hostess has been to our place once or twice for our big summer celebrate-the-new-wine and putanesca parties, and has obviously wandered into my little room which is shamefully lined with instruments I can barely play, and she has confused the memory of me owning instruments with the idea that she's heard me play them and that I'm damned good. She waxes poetic about my playing, while I stare into the eyes of one of the great contemporary studio guitarists and music directors, and I feel my weenie shrinking until it is werry werry smawl. Mr. Smith is gracious, asks how many ukes I have, and when I say it's an embarrassing number he makes me feel part of the club.
March 1 through March 7: I dip in and out of Ruhlman and Polcyn's Charcuterie, and I decide to try my hand at duck confit.
March 8: I go up to Union Square at lunchtime, thinking I'll check out one of the bookstores. The green market is in full swing - I hardly ever get there on a Monday - and I stumble into the fine people from Hudson Valley Duck Farm. I don't buy a book. I do buy 5 lb. of Moulard duck legs and thighs.
On the evening of the 8th I salt and season the duck (clove, black pepper, garlic).
March 9: I take half the day off, come home, wash and dry the duck, and at 1:35 put it in a 190 F stove in a dutch oven. Goal is to keep it there for 10 hours, rendering all the fat and poaching the meat therein. At 9 PM we're at City Winery to see G.E. Smith back David Broza. (Broza has just released an album of songs that are Townes Van Zandt lyrics willed to Broza, that he's set to music - Night Dawn.) At the end of the concert we boogie out and are home by 11:40. The duck fat has fully rendered, the meat is tender and delicious. I weight the meat under a plate to submerge it in the fat, and stick it in the cellar fridge. Gonna let is sit for a month. Then we'll crisp it in a hot oven and weep. Maybe use the rendered fat to do up some taters to put the duck over, Nu?
Thank you, GE. Thank you, Moe. Thank you everybody in between.
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