Time to Rock and Roll with 'The Killer'

Hey, if you ever doubted that rock and roll came from gospel and blues, listen to this.  If you don't at least pat your foot, too late to check for a pulse.

Making Better Peanut Butter

You only need two things.

           We like to make our own peanut butter and the process is as simple as teaching your wife the rules of logic.  Just kidding.  Peanut butter is a one step operation that won’t make you kick the dog, or lose your faith in the immutable laws of nature.

I always used to buy my peanut butter in jars that had filled the space on a grocery store shelf for weeks.  That doesn’t count the time for shipping and handling.

Then, there’s the ingredients to think of.  Ever read the label on a jar of Skippy’s Creamy Peanut Butter?  Peanuts come first, then sugar, followed by hydrogenated vegetable oils.  Not to pick on Skippy’s in particular.  Most brands are similar.  Did you know that if the jar says peanut ‘spread’ instead of peanut butter, it means there’s less peanuts and more filler?  In the U.S., peanut butter must be at least 90% peanuts.

How about the reduced fat peanut butter?  Add a bunch of chemical unpronounceables, and corn syrup.  Lots of sugar in the so-called natural peanut butters also.  With the latter, you’ll also find the oil has separated, meaning it’s been on the shelf a while and will be a chore to reconstitute.

            Peanut butter made at home has a lot of advantages:  Spares you the sugar and other sweeteners; you know exactly what you’re putting in your mouth, and there’s no separation when you keep it in the fridge.  Best of all, the fresh taste is superb.

            Ok, so what’s the secret process?  Buy a can of cocktail peanuts.  I like the ones with sea salt.  Inside the can are salted peanuts, looking a little shiny because peanuts have peanut oil.  Period.  That’s it for ingredients.  Open the can; dump the peanuts in your food processor and turn it on.  I save a handful of peanuts to throw in later because I like my peanut butter chunky.  At first, the peanuts churn into granules, then miraculously they almost liquefy and the peanut butter gets as smooth as silk.

            Turn on your food processor and set the speed on high.  In five minutes or less, you will have great tasting peanut butter.  At that point, as I said, I throw in the handful of nuts I’ve set aside, and briefly turn the food processor back on.  Briefly.

            I almost always get two questions about making peanut butter at home:  Do you have to add oil?  Nope.  Does peanut butter make your hair fall out, your belly swell, and turn you into a grumpy old man?  No.  Those things are caused by not playing poker with the guys and not drinking enough whiskey.

Facing the facts about peanuts and peanut butter:

China is the biggest exporter of peanuts, followed by India, and the U.S.

Aztecs were apparently the first to mash the nuts into paste.  I say apparently because I wasn’t there and nobody else I know was either.

In The Netherlands, peanut butter is called peanut cheese, because butter is a name reserved for creamery butter.

Peanuts are not nuts, but legumes.  They grow underground.

Peanuts account for about 2/3 of all nut consumption.

It takes about 540 peanuts to make one jar of peanut butter.

Check out more fun facts about peanuts: http://www.nationalpeanutboard.org/classroom-funfacts.php

Glorious Rebellion

In February 1963, in that middle twilight between Christmas vacation and Spring Break, a group of us boys sat hunched on benches in the wood paneled smoking room.  In those days, parents still gave their sixteen-year-old sons permission to smoke on the grounds of our private school.  As the customs of a coat and tie prep school demanded, we didn’t just smoke cigarettes.  We luxuriated in swirls of black, pungent, Turkish tobacco and punctuated our sentences by jabbing the air with our Gauloises, the blue packaged favorites of impossibly suave continental actors.  We were too cool.

“Watch it!” Robert yelped, and I noticed a neat circle of ash on his blue, silk tie.

         Barry Ellis, a tall kid with sandy hair and cheeks flushed with a new crop of acne, was thrilling us with details of the trip he and his parents and sister took to the Bahamas.  I was mostly interested in the sister.  Lila was shorter than her brother, no acne and with breasts noticeable enough to blank my mind at a rampaging dogfight.  At that point in my life, female breasts were still only a theory, guarded by Egyptian cottons and worsted wools.  Things of mystery. The thoughts of which could keep you up until well past the time you were sure your roommate was asleep.

As Barry droned on about the cost of steaks at the Seasider in Bimini and other detritus, my mind was on the warmth of the sun, Lila in a one-piece bathing suit, her skin aglow, eyes closed, nestled on a thick, white towel on the sand.  She had one knee up and I could follow her perfect form through every slow, rhythmic breath.  She turned her head and eyes opened as gracefully as doves’ wings.  Those sapphire orbs held me like a very awkward mouse in a trap.  Even in the privacy of my thoughts, no poignant response leapt out to make her mine.  At that point, I hadn’t actually spoken with Barry’s sister, but I had seen her eyes.  Dreams, like clouds, float without anchors.

         You might ask why a one-piece instead of something more titillatingly improper?  A one-piece suit represented womanhood to me, maybe because my mother always wore one at our rented Edisto beach house, or perhaps because the cheap thrills in some of the men’s magazines always wore bikinis, the top coyly held in place by a limp hand and a smile. By then I’d learned the difference. Breasts were the defining edge.  Women in the pictures always beckoned.  Real girls guarded them like the keys to their immortal souls.

         Barry, perhaps noticing my somnolent gaze, picked up the volume.  My dream died in the blare of his voice and I had to listen to the cost of new Bass Weejuns.  I already owned a pair myself.

         “So, Barry,” I said, “What’s your sis up to these days?”  The question made as much sense as interrupting a rectal exam to ask, ‘Hey, doc, how’s the wife.’  Barry stared at me, but kept on talking.

         The torch of conversation passed.  Mark, a shorter kid, with a tight, dark haircut, lamented a past Spring Break that had been pretty much a sleep late and have pancakes with your family operation.  Tommy and Robert nodded.  Tommy always held his cigarette with a thumb and forefinger, the palm of his hand toward his face, like some Peter Lorre character.  We dragged at our cigs a bit more and the discussion swung to drinking, another adult mountain.            

         All of us were proud of having wrestled down a swallow of the evil whisky.  Unlike testosterone tales involving young ladies, these were probably true.  There’s something volatile about the combination of truth and possibility.  Before long we were well into a plot to willfully disregard the state law, our parents fervent hopes, and drink to the point of stupefaction.

         Tommy flicked a shred of tobacco off his tongue, lowered his voice half an octave and rasped out the thin plot.  “You just stand outside a liquor store in the city,” he continued, glancing around, “And when you see a black guy coming, you offer him some money.  Works every time.”  There weren’t any witnesses to testify, but confidence is a golden coin.

         Robert, whose father was black, wanted to know why it had to be a black guy.  We discussed that and it boiled down to black guys being more willing to flaunt the law and being more trustworthy with our money.

         “With a white guy,” Tommy opined, “You either get a derelict or a biker, who are both gonna stiff you, or you get a guy in a suit who all of a sudden figures he’s morally compelled to flag down the police.  A black guy will just buy the stuff and hand it to you on his way out.”  Even Robert didn’t mount a counter argument, although it was hard to tell what he was thinking.  Black guy, whiskey.  White guy, police.  Police is a sobering thought.  No pun intended.

         Race was still pretty abstract in a school that was ninety-five percent white.  When we put a face on it, like with Robert, we moved crab-like rather than straight line.   So, the whole idea of who’s better to ask to buy you a bottle could have gone either way, even with Robert standing there.  After all, who’s the better guy, the one who does you a favor or the one who won’t?  We went with the black guy theory, but Robert said he wasn’t going to do the asking.

         “My dad would kill me,” he said sadly.  That didn’t mean he was out of the picture, he just didn’t want a speaking part.  He echoed our dread of discovery.  All of our dads would have killed us, except for Tommy, who lived with his aunt and uncle, so his uncle would have to do the killing.

         But, no matter the consequences, conspiracies seldom fail in the planning phase.  Three nights later, we headed into the city in a convertible, top down.  The wind cut like ice.  Nobody wore a hat, but we clutched our overcoats and tucked our chins. Robert drove.  He was the only one who could scrounge a car.  Barry knew the liquor store, but he wasn’t getting out because he said someone might recognize him.  The deed fell to me. Pass the money; get the whiskey.  The honor was dubious, the fear real.

         I stood shivering about five feet from the entrance, putting a post and most of the door between the liquor store clerk’s view and myself.  The first prospect was a white guy in a suit, exactly the sort I’d been warned against.  The second guy was a black guy in a suit.  I started to.  I made a move, but then held back.  A black guy in a suit wasn’t in the equation. Maybe he’d kick the crap out of me, then call the police.

         I fogged the chill air and watched the first two saunter out the door and down the street.  If they noticed me, they didn’t say anything.  Around liquor stores, people don’t speak.

         Finally, an older black guy, in jeans, a jeans jacket and a well-oiled baseball cap showed up. My teeth chattered, but I mumbled my order, slipped him a ten-dollar bill and watched him disappear into the glow and warmth of the store.  Minutes passed like hours.  I stole a glance.  He was chatting with the clerk. My throat was already frozen.  My heart followed the throat’s lead.  Was this it?  Was that the sound of sirens, the trumpet call of my downfall and disgrace?  The clerk kept talking and didn’t reach for the phone.

Moments later the black guy strode out with two brown paper bags.  He pressed one into my hand and asked if I wanted my change.  I mumbled no.  He hustled down the street and didn’t look back.

         The four of us drove to a city park a block away.  Being it was cold and night, we and the evergreens had it all to ourselves.  Robert didn’t partake.  It was before the days of don’t drink and drive, but he was afraid his dad would smell it on his breath. 

         Rum burns raw in your throat at first and the gag reflex tries not to let you swallow, but we choked it down.  Warmth and smug contentment flooded me.  I sucked deep lungfuls of chilled air, gazed upward at the stars and tasted the thrill of adulthood.  The bottle lasted about an hour and made a hollow clink when Barry tossed it in the steel trashcan.  Mark retrieved it and wiped off the fingerprints.  There was some debate about whether we should go get another, but by that time it was near ten o’clock.

         On the ride back we sang sloppy rock and roll at the top of our lungs.  The streets were pretty deserted, so it didn’t matter.  At the first stoplight, Mark favored us with his rendition of the upchuck song.  Robert was screaming at him not to get any on the car, while the rest of us grabbed some overcoat and kept him from taking a header onto the asphalt. 

         Barry went next, but not at a stoplight. Robert screamed at him, but Barry tossed it over the side at full gallop.  He used his tie to get the spillage.  Robert was inconsolable.

           We got dropped one by one and the easy laughter died an awkward death.

           Next morning Robert’s dad first whiffed the unmistakable stench of raw bile and then saw yellow streaks on the door, dried like old, sad, tears.

         After parental recriminations tapered off, the school year settled back into the same loping, downhill gait.   Robert lost his use of the car. Our parents pulled our smoking privileges. The dark age of winter dragged on.

Spring’s bright smile brought redemption. Sins forgiven or forgotten. Lila never made the transition from dream to reality.  I think she married a stockbroker.  But, sometimes I still think about that one-piece suit.

Biscuits go to London, the Magnificent Cream Scone

Dough is stiff, but not crumbly

note the pastry cutter 

An English tea is a wondrous culinary event.  Simple, but as stylish as an Audrey Hepburn movie.  A proper tea extends the boundaries well beyond the limits of teabags and sweet biscuits in the kitchen. It’s sitting in an ages old hotel, in London, or lounging in a quaint, half-timbered countryside inn, basking in the glow of an ancient fireplace, and being served a sumptuous bounty of finger sandwiches, short cakes, and buttery scones.  Small pots of fresh jam.  Cosied pots of fragrant tea.  You gaze wistfully at the tiered delicacies and wonder if you should break the spell and nibble these works of art.

            But, lacking the time and money to get to England, you can transform mere biscuits into scones and mere fruit into homemade jam.  Let’s do both, and I’ll  leave it to you to dream the rest.

            You have the recipe for biscuits.  Let’s alter it a bit and taste the difference.

Scones

2 Cups flour

2 Tablespoons sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking powder

3 tablespoons butter

1 1/3 to 1 1/2 Cups cream

Mix the dry ingredients.   Cut in the butter.  I use a food processor, but two forks, or an old-fashioned pastry cutter work well. Note that you’re using less butter than for biscuits.

After cutting in the butter, mix in the cream to make a stiff dough.  Too stiff?  Add a little more cream.   Flatten the dough into a round, about  3/4 of an inch thick.  Cut the round into wedges.  Separate and bake the wedges on an ungreased baking sheet at 450ºF, or 230ºC for 12 minutes, or until the tops are golden.

            Now let’s make the jam.  Use fresh fruit, or the glass-bottled fruit you find in the supermarket.  Peaches are one of my favorites. I sometimes add some fresh ginger to the mix.   Finely chop the continents of the jar, reserving the liquid, and put the bits in a frying pan.  Add a cup of sugar.  Let the sugar melt, then cook the mixture until the jam is thickened.  That’s it!  If gets too thick, add some of the reserved fruit liquid.  Serve the jam fresh and hot, or refrigerate and use it later.

            Present your scones and jam to your friends, with a pot of Earl Grey, or English Breakfast Tea, or of a million other varieties of tea.

            After tasting these scones, you’ll be saving your pennies for a trip to England.

Extract from my novel Cassavora County

    Published by Waldport Press, Cassavora County is a novel set in the small town south.  Riotous humor, mystery, sex, and nefarious characters creep off every page.  Take a look on Amazon.com, where you'll find reviews and a synopsis.  Meanwhile, here's a taste of what you're in for.  Don't turn your back, and be careful whom you trust if you live in Cassavora County.

         

        .....   The door to the United States Post Office was locked. Sheriff Goddard rapped his knuckles on the glass. Wilma, her light, blue-gray uniform shirt bright and starched, dark blue slacks covering a middle-aged middle, walked over and gave him a pinch-faced stare through the thick pane. “Sheriff’s Department, open the door please.”

            “I’m not allowed to open the door until eight thirty. We open at eight thirty.” She said it as a closing statement.

            A deputy came over at a half jog and stood behind Goddard. “The Doc’s on his way, but he wasn’t too pleased about it.”  Goddard let the remark pass.

            “Ma’am, I’m conducting an investigation and I need to talk to you.” The Sheriff, like everyone else who has visited a Post Office, felt impatience creeping resolutely into his voice.

            “This is federal property.”

            “I know what the hell it is,” Goddard commented, “Now open up.” The deputy adjusted his wide brimmed hat and stared down at his black, highly polished shoes.

            “You’ll have to wait until the Post Office is open,” Wilma countered, obviously irritated. “These people all think they’re special,” she muttered and frowned. “This is a Post Office and we have regulations!” She said the last part out loud, then turned to walk away.

            Goddard’s face changed color. “If you don’t open this door, right now, I’m going to book you as an accessory.” Wilma kept on walking. She had things to finish and except for double-parking six years ago, she’d never done anything she could be arrested for. Anyway, it wasn’t as if she could just turn the key and start the day. Wilma lived her routine according to Postal Regulations. The clerks that worked for her did too. They’d better. She hadn’t spent twenty-seven years working hard just so she could jump around at every customer’s little whim. There was a procedure for everything and forms to sign and stamps and money that needed to be counted. The union rules made it clear she didn’t have to jump just because somebody yelled grasshopper. “Why is it people are always so thoughtless and demanding?”

            Goddard wanted to smash the door and slap cuffs on this irritating, jackass of a Postal worker, but instead he turned to his deputy. “Go back to the car. Call the Postmaster and tell him we found a body in his parking lot and one of his stupid, overpaid clerks.... did you get a look at her name tag?” He paused.

            “Cook.”

           “Okay, Cook. Tell him Emperor-in-charge Cook is interfering with our investigation and saying it’s on his orders.”

         Five minutes later, a peevish looking Wilma Cook opened the door and started answering questions. Other Postal clerks hovered in the background, going about their daily chores, all ears trained on Wilma, the sheriff, and the deputy.

            Did she see anything? Only the usual. What time did she get to work? Seven thirty, like always. Was there anybody else in the Post Office when she heard the shot? Just her fellow clerks. Anybody in the parking lot? Not that she saw. The questions came like a pack of angry yellow jackets, but she stuck to her story. Nobody was there. Everything was normal. She hadn’t seen anybody else outside or inside. By now, however, she was sure she had heard a shot. As her interrogators walked out the door, she overheard the deputy asked the Sheriff if a thirty-eight would make the same sound as a backfire.

Ok, you've had a taste; now belly up for the full meal:  http://www.amazon.com/Cassavora-County-William-Stroud/dp/098205341X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328373487&sr=8-1

Gimme Some Ribs and Make It Fast!

I hesitate to mention ribs.  A thousand cooks, two thousand recipes.  But, believe it or not, there are some feckless souls who still think if they’re pressed for time, they have to go to Chili’s (gag reflex kicks in like a substance abusing mule).

Let’s bring in some sunshine, shift into sixth gear, mix some metaphors, and grab a rack (ribs, you pervert) and get cookin’.  First thing you need are some pork ribs.  I go for the full sized (unfrozen), rather than the baby backs, or the St Louis cut.  No particular reason except I find the full sized usually keep their flavor and juice a bit better.

Next, start a big pot of boiling water, drop in the ribs and let ‘em boil for 45 minutes to an hour.  I know what you’re thinkin’. All the flavor boils away.  Wait until you taste the results, open a bottle of red, fanny whooping wine, then make a more informed decision.

While the ribs boil, mix your dry rub:

1 portion salt

1 portion pepper

1/2 portion paprika

1/4 portion ground chipotle pepper. 

Mix well. You could use regular cayenne pepper, but chipotle adds a smoky flavor.  Whatever you use, make enough rub to really give the rack a thorough dusting.  If you have any left over, save it in a jar and use it for any meat you stick on the grill or in the oven, chicken, beef, or pork.

Now make simple syrup of 3 tablespoons dark brown sugar and 1 tablespoon of water.  Cook until all the sugar dissolves. For those of you who don’t want to use sugar, slap yourself hard across both cheeks, then follow the damn recipe. Interesting to note a can of Coke has about 3 1/2 Tablespoons of sugar, although American Coke uses high fructose corn syrup, even worse.

Heat your oven to 350ºF or 180ºC.

Take the boiled ribs out of the water and pat them very dry.  Use a paint brush to brush both sides of the ribs with the simple syrup. Don’t soak the ribs, just give them a quick paintjob.  Now scatter the dry rub heavily on the painted ribs.  Don’t be shy! You’re not salting scrambled eggs, you’re making ribs, hombre! If you’re thinking, whoops, that’s too much – it’s probably about right.

Put some foil on a baking sheet, drop the ribs on top and slide them in the oven.  20 minutes later you’ll have perfectly browned, crispy outside and tender inside ribs, with a robust flavor.  They’ll slide right off the bone.  You’ve just made ribs worth fighting for in about an hour and a half.  And if you hold anything sacred, for the love of heaven, never go to Chili’s again.

Down a Gothic Road, Where the Red Wines Flow

A wine for all days and all occasions 

Just as beautiful with leaves on the ground

We attended a quiet feedfest for eight or ten, in an old, German restaurant we’d never visited. Blasted nuisance tracking the place down, but a quaint find. High-timbers bridged the ceilings.  Candles flickered; scintillating conversation flowed. Without a second thought, and needing a brace from the cold, I ordered some German red wine, a Dornfelder halbtrocken, or half dry.  Some people who haven’t been to Germany in decades, my friends among them, will solemnly swear or affirm: There are no good German reds!  Other lost souls drink nothing but dry wines, the dryer the better.  Unlucky them, bogged in the truth of the past, and blind to the wealth of the present.  German reds can be glorious.  Half dries can be even gloriouser!   Here’s the gospel:  German reds have thrived in the last thirty years.

The wine arrived.  I held it to the light of a candle and a rich ruby glow banished darkness from the corners of the room.  The nose was perfectly balanced.
(Add here, tones of chocolate, hints of sock, eye of newt, any of your favorite pompous wine adjectives). I sipped and murmured an amen to Dionysus, the Greek god of the grape. 

           Through clever conversation and relying on my heavily accented German (Know you this wine the name of and where can I it buy?) I cajoled the waitress into giving up some cherished secrets of the kitchen. Turned out the vintner was about an hour away, in a little town on the Deutche Weinstraße, or German Wine Road.                 

Started in 1935, the wine road is the oldest named wine route in the world and stretches from the French border, south for about 85 kilometers, or 53 miles.  If you haven’t visited, it’s a delight for the eyes and palate, with classic village after classic village, broad acres of well-tended vines, and plenty of chances to stop and taste.  We could have jumped on the autobahn and pushed the chariot to well over a hundred miles an hour.  Could have.  Didn’t.  Instead, we harnessed ourselves to a winding two laner,  following deep valleys, and through tiny towns, including Frankenstein.  Yes, there is such a place, with the castle ruins on a hill overlooking the village, a castle that (supposedly) inspired Mary Shelly to write her famously gothic novel (pub 1818).

            The weingüt, or wine producer we searched for was Karl Dennhardt, who along with his reds, offers some of the finest whites and rosés in the region.  His winemaking facilities are tucked into a spacious old stone barn, on a small and somber street on the outskirts of the town of Neustadt-Mussbach. Vineyards stretch in quiet rows behind the house and barn.   Karl and his wife, both in their eighties, own the vineyards independently, and are almost embarrassingly hospitable.  On the day we shuffled into their tasting room, a group of Germans had beat us to the punch; but in Germany, if there is room at the table, you’re welcome to sit, and in this case, sip. Fifteen or twenty bottles already sat open on the scared oak table.  Lots of whites, but we came for in the reds.  In German and English, a group of about ten tasted, compared, and offered opinions, most of which were lost in translation and the flow of the wine.

            The two most popular red wine varieties in Germany are Spatburgunder (pinot noir) and Dornfelder.  We sipped each and munched pretzels in between.  Mrs. Dennhardt told how most of her family immigrated to the U.S. and sadly have no intention of returning.  She confessed, when she and Karl’s wine making days are over, they’d sell the business.

            Meanwhile, the wines tasted better and better.  The Dennhardts offered some excellent 2005 Cabernets and we purchased a few bottles. Couldn’t resist.  These Cabs tiptoe fragrantly across the taste buds and if you like ‘em dry and flavorful, you’ve found the lost silver mine.  We also brought home a couple of cases of the Pfalz Bereich Mittelhaardt Rotwein halbtrocken, the wine that had led to our journey, and six bottles of a light and bright rosé.  Average cost for all the wines was about six bucks a bottle.

            The morals of the story are, don’t live in the past, unless the past is written on the label, don’t take the autobahn and Vive! those damn good German reds!