Lunch In Heidelberg

View from the Inside Out

A Wine Worth Mentioning

The Superb Ravioli

The Equally Grand Goulash

Jump a smooth, immaculately kept train for pocket change, sit back, read and watch the beautiful countryside stream by.  Get off in one of Germany’s most picturesque cities, Heidelberg, complete with a swiftly flowing river, an ancient university and an ancient downtown to match.  Have a quiet, unhurried lunch at a quaint restaurant, with superb food and wine.  Stroll the cobblestone streets.  Ho-hum, just another weekend lunch trip in Deutschland.

I could go on and on about Heidelberg, (and probably will when you least expect it and don’t have time to avoid it) but the quick answer is, it’s best just to wander the streets in the old city and find your own special favorites.

  One of ours is a small hotel and restaurant very near Heidelberg’s cathedral, The Church of the Holy Spirit (circa 1398).  The Hackteufel (Devil’s Cut) has all you’d want for an intimate luncheon for two.  Reeking with ambiance and old world charm, you walk inside and feel as if you’ve just entered the dining room of your warmest and most comfortable dream.  Low, tasteful lighting.  Full, yet subdued decorations.  A buxom waitress….wait, a sec, I mean a very demure, but efficient waitperson, who knew everything on the daily menu and had tasted enough wine to make me wish I had been there. 

In Europe, the wine is every bit as important as the meal and rightly so.  The wine list is also longer than the menu.  My wife ordered a Spätbugunder (Pinot Noir) Weißherbst rosé and I got a Portugieser red wine.  Both were wonderful.  I’ve never seen my wife quite so ebullient over a wine.  “Try this!” she said loudly enough to make the chef quiche in his pants.  Last time this happened was in church during a particularly raucous communion.  I tried the Spät and it was all she said and more.  Smooth. Beautiful floral nose.  Mixed fruits giving it a bare edge of sweetness.

For the main course, my wife ordered a minced lamb stuffed ravioli, lashed with delicate bacon, onion cream sauce and lightly oven baked with a mild, semi-hard Italian cheese, accompanied by mixed greens with vinaigrette.   This was a far cry from the Chef Boyardee ravioli of my misspent youth.  Far cry?  I don’t think the transatlantic cable would stretch that far. Light, yet flavorful, it gave a new perspective to ravioli.

I had a mixed burgundy goulash on a nest of spaghetti noodles.  Tender. Savory.  Luscious for lunch or anytime anyone lends you a fork.  This was the ‘special of the day’ and special it was!  I like my meat one of two ways, rare, or cooked until it’s falling apart.  The goulash was the latter and moreover, the sauce complimented the richness of the meat instead of simply masking a cheap cut.  Every bite delicious.

This was a lunch to remember and repeat….often, in one of the most romantic cities on earth.

Guacamole Olé

Guacamole comes from the Aztec word, ahuaca-mulli, meaning beat an avocado to death and eat it with chips, or drop by the volcano and toast a virgin.  Not sure which. My Aztec is as rusty as my grandpa’s liver.  Actually, in the early centuries (way before there were instruments of instant gratification, like Skype, and sexting), the avocado was hailed as an aphrodisiac, which partially accounts for it’s popularity among the Aztecs, the Spanish conquistadors, and men of all races and ethnicities over the age of fifteen.  It’s a myth, of course, much like finding the ideal mate, keeping all your hair until you’re ninety, or getting a doctor to tell you your cholesterol level is perfect.  Hey, wait a sec!  Avocado has only .7 percent saturated fat and no cholesterol, so eat avocadoes and concentrate on the other two.

Now that we’ve established that an avocado, the main ingredient in guacamole, is one slick, non-cholesterol fruit, what about the rest of its bonafides?   A serving of one ounce has forty-five calories, of which 39 are fat.  Good news.  Calorie-wise, it’s like eating healthy chocolate cake.

Back to Guacamole.  Always remember that there are two parts to a great guacamole, the guacamole itself and the chips.  Neglect the chips and it’s like trying to make a great sandwich with fluffy, white supermarket bread, or a fab pizza with a pre-fab crust.  So, let’s discuss the chips.  There is one way and no other.  You must fry the chips yourself.  If you don’t have a favorite brand of corn tortillas, try out a few brands and find one that’s not too thick and crisps nicely.  If your mate whines that it will take too long, and reaches for a bag of chemically enhanced, made by the ton, pseudo-chips, ignore, him, her, or them. (I already warned you it was tough to find the perfect mate.)

Chips. Cut the corn tortillas into quarters (see photo, or grab your third grade math book) and fry them in a little healthy oil in a frying pan or a deep fat fryer. On medium heat, they get crisp in a hurry.  Scoop the crisp chips onto a nest of paper towels to drain and sprinkle on the salt.  Takes almost no time and makes all the crispy, crunchy, flavorful difference.

Now for the green stuff.

2 or 3 avocadoes (Hass works best, but I like the slick-skinned Florida avocado as well)

3 Tablespoons finely chopped onions

1 clove garlic, chopped fine

2 Tablespoons French dressing

2-3 Tablespoons thinly chopped tomatoes

1 Tablespoon hot sauce

Salt and pepper to taste

Note to my European readers:  how to convert American measures to European measures: http://german.about.com/library/blrezepte_conv.htm

           

Put all ingredients in a food processor, or mash and mix by hand.  Turn the food processor on briefly.  I like my guacamole a little chunky, but if you like yours silky smooth, just keep on pressing the button.  Taste, and add more salt, pepper, and hot sauce, if needed.

Serve with your favorite beverages, and of course your perfect mate.  I was only kidding about not being able to find one.  Blush, blush.

Fooled By Randomness

Fooled by Randomness, by Nassim Nicholas Taleb, is a disturbing book.  It asks questions we don’t want asked and hear answers we don’t want to hear.

Mr Taleb is an investor, par excellence, but an investor with a twist.  He despises risk and takes every caution to avoid it.  But, wait a minute; is this a book about investing?  Yes and no.  Part of the book uses examples from the world of stocks and bonds, but much of it does not, and every bit of it applies to your life and mine.

How about this question:  Does your boss talk utter nonsense?  Your favorite politician?  Let’s separate meaningful sentences into two categories, deductive and inductive.  Deductive would be something like:  Two plus two equals four.  From the inputs flows the answer.  In the case of inductive sentences, there is more room for discussion.  It rains in Spain.  Really?  A lot or a little? All over Spain? How do you know it rains in Spain?  Taleb examines the inductive side with something called the Dada Engine, which can be used to generate grammatically sound sentences that are meaningless.  How can you tell the difference, if the statement is inductive?  Taleb goes into some detail about how random bits can be strung together to mean nothing, but sound elegant.  He didn’t need to use the engine.  We get random gibberish everyday, from multiple sources, most of whom are in positions of authority.

Now, to steer toward investing.  We’ve all received a letter from an “expert” claiming to have the final word on making money.  But, do these experts have true expertise, or are they also random riders on the train to success.  Taleb takes a stab at the answer this way.  Given X number of investors, and the randomness of the stock market, invariably Y number of investors will make money and Z number will lose money.  X, Y, and Z will change as the market swings and investors join in or drop out.  Making or losing money becomes a probability, much like rolling the dice. No matter what you do, a certain number of times, you will roll boxcars and a certain number snakeyes.  But, what about the guy who rolls six boxcars in a row?  He is now an expert, yet the probability of his rolling another pair of sixes is exactly the same the seventh time as it was the first.  But, savvy investors make money all the time.  Not so fast, ace. As an unnamed investor said of another, “He has successfully predicted five of the last two recessions.”

But, you say, “This guy has a great record of predicting which stocks to buy.  He predicted the stock of X, Y, and Z companies would go up.  They all did!”  Taleb easily explains this and the answer will stupefy you.

Taleb doesn’t stop there.  He brings probability to the real world, such as the O.J. Simpson trial and life expectancy.  Taleb doesn’t read the newspapers anymore, or watch the news on TV.  Why?  Too much trivia, misinformation, and downright ignorance of probability.  Newspapers and TV upset him.

As humans, there are a couple of things we can’t do, rule out emotions, and consider all the possibilities.  When we experience bad luck, which Taleb might call the probability of failure, we only consider that we could have had good luck, or better luck, not that what happened to us was on the upper scale of all the bad that could have happened.  And, how can we control our emotions?  Truth is, we can’t really.  But, we can mollify the effects our emotions have on us.  Don't watch the news.  Don’t check stock prices everyday.

Read this book.  It makes you think and it’s good for investments, but it’s better for the soul.

Stuffed In the Name of Love

For this most happy day, one of those rarities named after a saint, but celebrated by non-Catholics all over the world, let’s break tradition and make stuffed mushrooms.  Go ahead!  Think outside the box of chocolates!

You know, not every culture thinks about Valentine’s Day in the same way.  In Japan, on V Day (as opposed to VJ Day) it’s the women who buy the chocolate for the men.  Men get to return the favor on White Day in March, or as we would choose to call it in America, if we had one, which we don’t, Multi-Culture Day.

Lots of symbolism with mushrooms.  Mushrooms, in some cultures, are phallic symbols.  All the more reason stuffed mushrooms are a great choice for V-day.  Many men really identify with the short and stubby varieties.  In China the mushroom indicates long life.  In some native cultures of South and Central America, as well as Berkley, California, they indicate, like, you know, really, really cool stuff, man.  I think they can be prescribed in California. Anyway, we’re not using those kinds of mushrooms.

Ok.  Enough history and worthless facts!  We don’t need no stinkin’ facts!  We need food!  Open a sturdy red wine and let’s get to the heart of the Valentine issue.  What kind of mushrooms are we going to use?  We’ll use agaricus bisporus, or as my beer swilling, stained t-shirt friends call them, button mushrooms.

Agarius grows in practically every grocery store.   Conveniently, they grow already cleaned and plastic wrapped.  But, just to be sure, we’ll wash them.

The Necessaries.

1 package button mushrooms (about 12 to 16, depending on size)

    (the brown variety works equally well)

1 Mexican style chorizo sausage or 2 of the smaller Puerto Rico variety

1/2 Cup breadcrumbs (I put stale bread in the food processor and make my own)

3/4 Cup shredded cheese of your choice

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

Note:  Mexican chorizo is soft, the texture of American pork sausage.  Puerto Rican, or Spanish style chorizo is smoked and has a hard texture.  Use either one, but first remove the casing.

Preparing the mushrooms: Wash the mushrooms, take out the stems and set the stems aside.  Put a little bit of olive oil in a frying pan.  Now add the mushrooms, stem side up. Set the stove on medium to low.  You going to get the mushrooms to slightly brown and give up much of their water.  As the caps fill with water, turn the mushrooms over to brown the stem side.  When the mushrooms are slightly brown on both sides, they’re done.  (See Photo)

Heat your oven to 350ºF or 180ºC.

Preparing the filling:  Either finely chop the mushroom stems, breadcrumbs, and Puerto Rican chorizo together in your food processor, or finely chop them by hand.  Drizzle in a little olive oil. 

If using Mexican chorizo, fry it in a pan, breaking it up with a spatula, as you would hamburger.  When it’s cooked, add it to the breadcrumbs, etc.

Put the filling mix in a pan and briefly cook it to get the water out of the chopped mushroom stems. (See Photo)  When it cools enough, add your favorite cheese.  I’ve used cheddar, queso blanco, Monterrey jack, among others.

Stuffing and cooking:  Salt and pepper to taste.  Grab the spoon of your choice, mound the filling onto the mushroom caps and place them in a baking dish.  Put them in the oven and bake for about 10-15 minutes or until the filling is beginning to slightly brown.  (See Photo)  Serve hot!

Happy Non-Traditional, Very Symbolic Valentine’s Day

An Unlikely Hero

         


            In the ragged, hot summer of 1934, Tommy Brayfield sweltered in a cheap hotel room with his one true friend, a Smith & Wesson six shot,.38 Special, with a mother of pearl handle.  The window was open and a thin curtain chased a wisp of breeze in and out and carried away the smoke from the Chesterfield that hung off his lip.  Being skinny and missing breakfast didn’t stop him from sweating as he caressed the steel barrel with an oiled rag.  The gun was not a plaything.  It was his life, and he cared for it like it was something alive.  In a way it was.  Tommy carried it for a specific reason.  Sure, he could have gone bigger, or fancier, but the .38 caliber Special was what most police carried, and most soldiers.  Very common.  Hard to trace.   His stomach growled.He’d eat later, after the job was done.  “Steak,” he muttered aloud, “Rare and a full glass of whisky.”  His Adam’s apple bounced without touching the loose, white, but stained shirt collar. The collar was frayed in places.  It mirrored Tommy’s life.  But Tommy wasn’t much for introspection.  Still, he had his pride and especially pride in his work of killing people.  You gave him a job and the job got done.  Most of the time it was simple.  Money changed hands. You came, you shot, you left.           
          If it hadn’t been for that dumb bastard passing him on the street last night at the very moment, the very damn moment, he’d be back in Chicago now, with a full belly and a woman, instead of sweating like a two bit nag in this hick town.  He’d had a chance to do the job and he’d been ready to do it.  Shit, he should have just shot the mark and walked away.  Surprise and speed were the keys. Didn’t matter where and it didn’t matter when.  Chances are that other dumb bastard wouldn’t have gotten a look at him anyway.  This time he’d do it right. But last night still flickered and teased.  It ain’t all that tough, offing a rich husband.  Bam!  Sure thing.  Payday.  Not like that scary shit of driving into a hick town and knocking over a bank.  Dillinger and the boys could have that all to themselves; he’d stick with what he did best.            
          The daily paper rustled a little on the bed.  Headlines read, “Unknowns Rob Madison City Bank.” Tommy glanced at it and shook his head.  “Scary shit,” he said under his breath.
                                                                         *****            
          Mr. Brady strolled into the Police Station, touched his hat and growled a terse good morning to Sara Jane, the Chief’s secretary.  She looked up from her typing.           
          “Chief Collins in?”  He rocked back on his heels, put one hand on his prosperous stomach, then moved his hand up and twisted the end of his waxed mustache. His eyes wandered to strategic places.
          Sara Jane ignored the glances and parried,   “How’s Mrs. Brady?”                                 
          “Fine,” was the terse reply, flavored with a hint of a scowl.             
          The private office was behind a big door, half of it frosted glass.  Curved black letters read, “Elmer G. Collins” and under that a straight line, “Chief of Police.”            
          The Chief got up when Brady walked in.  Big smile and a handshake.  Collins waved him to a hardback wooden chair and sat back down behind his desk.  “What’s on your mind?”           
          “It’s not just my mind, Elmer.  As you know, I’m President of the Merchants’ Association.” There was an imperial, monotone to Brady’s voice that grated, like shaving with a dull razor.  Maybe it was the way his judgmental eyes flicked around the room and the impatient way he shifted in his chair, as though nobody else’s time was quite as valuable.            
          “I surely do know that, and I also know you’re doing a fine job.”  Collins spoke up to cut him off before Brady could begin his usual pontification.            
          “Well,” Brady began again, “We’re coming up on another election.”           
          Another veiled threat, Chief Collins thought, but he didn’t say anything, just pursed his lips and bridged his fingers.           
          “As I was saying, you’ve been a good Chief.”           
          “But,” Collins said.            
          “Well, there’s been some banks robbed and some members of the Association have been getting a little nervous.  You know, robbing a bank is one thing, but scaring off customers is something else.  And, Madison City is less than three hours away.”            
          “Your wallet starting to feel a little thin?”             
          “It’s not the business....” His eyes darted around the room.  “But, they only robbed the Madison Bank a couple of days ago.”            
          “What is it exactly you want me to do?”           
          “We were thinking maybe you could increase the police patrols downtown.”            
          “Horace, I’ve got three men and myself.  All of us are downtown all day, unless something happens that calls us away.”            
          “Exactly, my point.  What if you get called away?”            
          “We’re never called very far or for very long.  My authority ends at the city limit.”            
          The arrogant tone again.  “We really need some protection for the citizens.”            
          Sometimes it’s easier to give an inch.  “Look, I’ll tell you what; until this business with bank robberies calms down, I’ll walk the streets myself.  We can stretch the patrols to a couple hours after dark.”            
          “We were thinking that maybe you should deputize some of the citizens.  Let them sit up in the attics around town.  Maybe let them carry rifles.”            
          Collins wanted to roll his eyes.  He refrained.  Brady might be a little short on courage and long on talk, but the Association all but ruled the town when it came to turning out the vote and paying the bills.  “I don’t like the idea of untrained men with rifles.”
                                                                             *****            
             Miles away, Jackson, Billy, and Fred sat in a barn with an old Ford parked outside.  Jackson was counting, moving the bills into three piles.  “Looks like it’s gonna come out to four hun’ard apiece.”                     
          “Four hun’ard?”  Billy was incredulous.  “I could piss four hun’ard dollars worth of beer.”
          “Yeah,” Fred growled, “You was sayin’ lots before.”  Fred had problems with large numbers, so hundreds probably confused him.                            
          “I know what I was saying,” Jackson replied, trying to keep the edge off his voice, “But four hun’ard apiece is what we got!”  His pitch rose a little in spite of himself.  He shoved back from the table.  “You count it!”  It was a safe bet.  Neither Fred nor Billy could count past ten without taking off their shoes.            
          The conversation went back and forth, with nobody doing anything but complaining, until finally Jackson said, “Look, you want more money, you’re gonna have to rob another bank.”  It got real silent.                          
          “Where?”  Fred asked, unblinking. 
          “There’s a little town ‘bout three hours from Madison,” Jackson said.            
          “Whooowee!”  Billy pulled the silver revolver that was stuffed down his britches and rolled the cylinder.  “Whooowee!  Now you’re talkin’!”            
          Yeah, Jackson thought, now I’m talking, you cretin, but I'm talking to two useful idiots who are going to get me killed.  Billy forgot being upset about the lack of money from the last robbery and went back to grinning and polishing his gun.  The way he waved it around, somebody was going to get hurt.  With any kind of luck, it would be Billy.            
          Fred wasn’t the loose, gunslinger Billy was, but he didn’t test positive for intelligence either.  Periodically, Jackson thought of ditching the both of them, but right now, like them, he was broke.  Four hundred dollars wouldn’t last two months, then he’d be right where he started.  Broke.  He’d make this one last run with the two imbeciles and then cut himself loose.
                                                                            *****            
          It was the Chief’s shift, around noon, while the other men took a nap, or ate lunch, and the sun turned the whole town into a skillet.  A thin layer of dust covered everything like tan ash, including the blades of grass around the courthouse.  Still, he liked the idea of getting out of the office and strolling.  A little sweat was good for the soul. At least he’d been able to convince that fool Brady not to have him turn Main Street into a shooting gallery.              
          The Chief was walking toward the bank, glancing back at Mr. Brady who was standing in front of his store.  He saw a man come out of the hotel and walk toward Brady, a skinny stranger, one hand on a bulge in his coat pocket.  His first thought was that Brady had out foxed him; hired his own guns to patrol the town.   Almost simultaneously, a car swerved around the corner and drove right between the Chief and the stranger.  It screeched to a dusty halt in front of the bank and three armed men jumped out, one of them waving a silver revolver.  Two made for the front door of the bank. Silver Gun stayed in the street. They had hats pulled down tight, the brims shadowing their faces.            
          Sweet kingdom of God, Chief Collins thought as he whirled to face the guy in the street, dropped to one knee, and tugged unsuccessfully at the pistol in his black leather holster.  Being out in the middle of the street in a policeman’s uniform suddenly made him as uncomfortable as a Baptist in a brewery.  “I’m a dead man,” is what he said out loud.  Nobody was listening.            
          Tommy Brayfield strolled out of the hotel and headed toward Brady’s Department Store with murderous intent.  The sun shone in his eyes, but he could make out the rotund figure of Mr. Brady standing in front.  Got the bastard now, he thought, and put his hand on the gun hidden under his coat.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chief Collins.  Shit, he said to himself.  Another needless complication to what should have been over yesterday.            
          Then a car swerved toward him, kicking up enough dust for a rodeo.  The car stopped in a squeal of tires and the next thing he knew, a guy was pointing a gun at him from a distance of about ten yards.  He drew his weapon and sent Billy a chest high shot that shattered ribs and ruptured several major vessels.  Billy pulled at the spreading stain on his chest and wheezed, trying to draw a breath that wouldn’t come.  He fired the silver revolver on his way to the ground, but his depth of vision wasn’t any longer than his lifespan.  The bullet went array, striking Mr. Brady exactly between his beady eyes, dropping him faster than nightfall in December.            
          Tommy Brayfield wheeled around toward Brady and took a few steps, but made the grievous error of swinging his gun in the direction of Chief Collins. The chief had heard the pops from behind the car.  Then several more shots from in front.  Now that skinny stranger stepped into view and was pointing a gun at him.  Who the hell could tell what was going on?  It was like a wild west show in the middle of his quiet little town and here he was rolling around like a dog in a sandbox.  With all the effort and grace of an etherized man trying to escape from a dentist’s chair, he freed his pistol and fired off a few rounds in the general direction of the melee.  He saw a man go down. Between the dust and the heat and the sweat, and having bullets whizzing by, it was all a jerky, blurry movie.  Although he didn’t know it, one of his bullets shattered Tommy Brayfield’s femur and the femoral artery.  Another ricocheted off the street and smashed a store window, scarring hell out of 77-year-old Gertrude Timble, who was in the process of buying blue yarn, but now wet her pants and fainted. The whole thing lasted maybe two minutes, until two men raced out of the bank, screaming at each other and ignoring Billy’s body that lay sprawled in the street. The car sped away. The Chief fired another shot, and had no idea where it went, but nobody fell dead.   The dust settled.  The streets were quiet again.  Three men lay bloody and unmoving in the dust, Brady, Billy, and some poor son-of-a-bitch who’d been walking his dog.
                                                                            *****            
         The town mourned the loss of the President of the Merchant’s Association and most of all the death of the skinny stranger who it was said had killed one of the bank robbers and sent the other two running.  Some of the merchants said the Chief of Police must have taken Brady’s advice and hired an extra gun.  The Chief didn’t deny it.  The newspaper found out the stranger’s name and where he was from.  With Mrs. Brady’s overly enthusiastic blessing, a citizens’ committee collected money to have a statue put up that showed him pointing his pistol and selected an inscription that read, “I may be a stranger, but I come as a friend.”  Some called him a guardian angel.  Chief Collins gave another inch and didn’t disagree.

Our Small Corner of Germany: Autumn to Winter

Our backyard is a wonderful, wild garden, free to twist and change in wind and weather. Trees and hedges.  Winsome, sweet grasses.  Flowers of striking color in the spring, or somber black stalks in December.

Some of the things I like best about the garden, aside from not having a lawn to mow and leaving the gardening to my dirt-loving wife, are the constant changes of color and design from season to season.  It’s been a while since we’ve lived with a year cleaved into four distinct quarters.  The subtleties from one season to the next, dance slowly and blur the edges, yet unite and glide them in a masterly symphony of nature.

            Germany is a country of sheer, never ending beauty, from the rolling green hills and meadows of springtime, to the year around rugged grandeur of the Alps; from the dark, and mysterious forests, swollen with lush summer greenery, to the white blanketed fields and black skeletal trees of winter.

            Our backyard garden is a microcosm of Germany’s seasonal wonders.  I sit and read and sip my morning coffee, sometimes outside and sometimes in, glancing up to marvel at nature’s ever changing tableaux. 

From Flat Page to Flat Screen

Today, you hopeless TV addicts and myopic book lovers, let’s look at a couple of my favorite TV shows, Monk and Dexter, and their eponymous books.  Love those TV shows, even though Monk’s run is over.  But, if you’re a morbidly depressed Monk fan, don’t roll up those sleeves and open those pulsing veins just yet. It ain’t over ‘til the Inca is dry on the calendar.  The Monk books are keeping the very peculiar detective alive.

Monk and Dexter are not the only ones to crisscross media.  Lots of TV shows and movies have book connections.  Some are odd enough to twist your mind in knots.  The TV series Castle, for example.  The main character, Richard Castle is a writer, who writes about a fictional character, based on another fictional character.  Now there are a series of books about the second fictional character, purportedly written by Richard Castle, himself a fictional character.  See what I mean?  You need a flow chart and the mind of Rainman’s math teacher.  Also, the Castle books, in my ungrateful opinion, do not live up to the excitement and cutting edge characters on TV.  Hooked one book.  Threw it back.

The Monk and Dexter books, on the other hand, shine. They’re true to the personalities and follow the rhythm (if not the letter) of their TV partners.  There is a notable difference, however.  The Monk novels, written by Lee Goldberg, are based on the TV series.  The TV series came first. 

With Dexter, it was the other way around.  First the novels, by Jeff Lindsay, then the TV series.  As we all know, TV and movies, because of the time element, and because audiences’ concentration limits approach absolute zero, things compress and skip.  Since the Dexter books came first, the books and TV series get completely out of synch.  No matter.  I watch the TV in one universe and read the books in an alternate universe. My magical Jim Beam transporter allows me to do this.

I hate those instances when the character who lives in the happy mist of memory is not the character you see on the screen.  Is there anyone besides yours truly, and still young enough to feed himself, who has read the James Bond novels, by Ian Fleming?   If so, you know the James Bond of the books is cold blooded and ruthless, compared to the flicks, although lately the film Bond seems to have grown a couple. 

Oh, how I digress.  In the plots of TV Dexter and in the books, the character remains a fascinating psycho.  Ain’t it nice when an author so skillfully makes you root for the murderer? Dexter likes to kill and yours truly is grateful he only likes to kill truly bad people, instead of run-of-the-mill sinners.  Whew!  Close one!

Monk is also a steady performer on TV and in books.  He’s always the obsessive-compulsive guy you’d like to invite to clean your house, and who tracks down killers with a singularly twisted glance.

So, which books do I like best?  Dexter?  Monk?  Gotta be an invertebrate fence sitter on that question.  Love ‘em both.  I watch and I read.  The characters are real and true to themselves.  The plots are gripping on film and in print.  I call them potato chip books.  And I say, “Pass the bag, please.”