Harry the Frog.

I first met Harry the Frog on a message board called the Zen Shed in 1999.  He was the moderator and each week we would all contribute to a Renga poem.  Here's an excerpt from Wikipedia:

In Japan a renga starts with a hokku of 5-7-5 sound units by one of the guests - usually the most honored or experienced. This is followed by the second verse of 7-7 sound units, called the waki (脇^?, "side"), and then by the third verse of 5-7-5 sound units, called the daisan (第三^?, lit., "the third"). The next verse will be 7-7 sound units, and this pattern is repeated until the desired length is achieved. It is common in English to use forms that show the number of the verse, how long it is to be, whether the moon or flowers should be mentioned, when one author takes two links at once. Since the renga of different lengths have different schemes for how many verses are given to each season and non-seasonal verses, it is easiest to use one of the available forms so that everyone understands and follows the same program.

Harry always made sure the waki got along with the daisan.  He was keenly adept at maintaining the peace between the two.  When Harry first arrived in Australia, which he claimed was in the 1960's, he had the good fortune of coming across a book of haiku in an old thrift shop.  This particular book was imbued with a subtle and mysterious energy.  When read in a certain sequence, each haiku revealed a modicum of universal truth.  As his understanding grew, he began practicing the art of restorative food preparation and taught the craft to only two people.  Those two people must remain a hidden secret, far from the clammy paws of consumerism.  Rest assured though, two people learned from his lessons, and those two people agreed to teach two more.  He would tell you that maybe Tracy Bayntay might be one of those, but then he'd grin and you wouldn't know for sure.

The Zen Shed was our virtual hangout where we practiced such a cool and interesting activity like renga.  Therein lies the same issue, what constitutes reality?  Harry would say reality does, even if you call it something else like telephonic or jamboree.  He has a knack for being witty and nonsequitor.

One of the best cooking secrets he shared with me was, nevermind.  But he did share several and among them was a cilantro pesto.  The trick was in gathering the right ingredients though, something that takes far more effort than most busy lifestyles allow.  Price one pays for quickness.  Harry recommends growing as much food as you can, while initiating a Meowyum chant and listening to your favorite music, as long as it has gamelan, such as used by Solace, in it.  The rules for cultivating such unbelievable results with food are specific yet a certain ambiguity resides in interpretation and application.  Like most things.

Harry inspires Winston to compose haiku while practicing his mime gig.  He explains that haiku expands the mind because it is so seemingly simple in form and so complex in nature.  Harry likes the idea of expanding the mind.  He considers himself a future primitive shaman, at least that's what he calls it.  He says food is alchemy.  He says he used to practice alchemy back in the day but never said when that was.  The enigma of his life is something that is at once shocking and soothing.  He does seem like he's been around the block a few times.  One of his morning rituals involves steeping a pot of chai tea.  Contrary to the opinions of many, there are not infinite recipes for chai tea, explains Harry, if anything there is only one perfect way to do it, and that's for you to figure out.  One of his many kooky practices. 

So Winston connects with a new friend from the Netherlands who wants to compose music for spoken word.  Winston tells him that it might be a perfect idea to collaborate.  Just another day at The Ionic Spell collective, thinks Winston. Pupito hooks him up with a virtual tour of the virtual space. Harry the Frog looks on and nods as he hands Winston a glass of Numanthia Toro.

What is American Zen?

American Zen is a reconciliation.  The debate over what delineates substance from artifice continues to rage in thought as people strive to define our common era.  American Zen is a practice where vast consumerism is understood through a process of spiritual integrity.  Through the intentional expansion of consciousness, we are able to achieve a heightened state of awareness and overcome the disdain that erupts from our interpretation of environment.  In his book Simulacra and Simulation, Baudrillard explains,

There is no real, there is no imaginary except at a certain distance. What happens when this distance, including that between the real and the imaginary, tends to abolish itself, to be reabsorbed on behalf of the model? Well, from one order of simulacra to another, the tendency is certainly toward the reabsorption of this distance, of this gap that leaves room for an ideal or critical projection.

The distinction between oberver and Other breaks down.  The essence of illusion  dissolves and becomes as concrete as any other phenomenon.   All definition is a clumsy attempt to corral a thing into understanding, but yet succeeds in portraying a glimpse potent enough to initiate interconnectivity.  Whether experiencing the golden satisfaction of paella or the soundscapes of My Dad Vs Yours, each experience lends itself to a new formulation of reality.  One constantly in flux but nevertheless real.

Winston Dufaux moves into the Ionic Spell Collective.  He intends to collaborate with musicians who live there and create spoken word projects.  He must fix his unicycle.  The patch of weeds in front of his house reminds him of childhood.  He senses it but does not bother to tell anyone.  In a virtual environment, the wind is barely active.  He looks at his new surroundings and considers where to hang the paintings.  He picked up some digital art from a friend of his, also virtual.

The first meal Tracy Bayntay prepared for them contained all the elements of the excitement of new love.  She lifted a beef short ribs recipe from the web and as a result of her meticulous attention to detail and her culinary prowess created the best meal Winston ever tasted.  While she cooked, she listened to pet ghost project on her mp3-player-without-a-brand-name.  She made sure to add the additional pop to her dish.  Those familiar with the pop understand how important it is for tasty food.  The aroma from the dish wafted through the air and inspired Winston to work on his next project, his spoken mime performance of "The Great Hug" by Donald Barthelme.  His virtual friend, the painter (who is really me in this reality) showed him a video clip he made for rhetoric class.  It was used for a presentation.

And so the guy standing there explains how a sense of whimsy is inspired through a narrative appeal.  He uses notecards but is too nervous speaking publicly that his presentation is clumsy.  He pushes through by imagining that he is someone else in the audience watching the presentation.  This technique works and he finishes with flourish.  He is glad to inspire Winston.  It isn't often that a virtual fictional character creates something from such a presentation, but Winston does a fine job.

Tracy Bayntay and Winston Dufaux.

I have decided to link my recipe descriptions to other blogs in order to promote other individuals and expand on the repetoire of interesting links.  I am still going to maintain my own secret stash of recipes for use in the cookbook that will be written by a fictional character, Tracy Bayntay, from my first novel American Zen and the Noise of Fusion.  She even plans on keeping a travel journal as she makes her way around the world in search of spices.

Oddly enough, when Winston was on tour with the band around the Gulf Coast, he heard of this electrafolk outift from Brooklyn, Jon Sheldrick and Luke Smith.  A buddy of his had actually burned the mp3's to disc and recorded then onto cassettes.  That was his first exposure to Awning.  A rather lo-fi way to go, but highly enjoyable. He threw on the old walkman and strolled the empty beach at Dauphin Island.  There was no sign of seagulls.  He sat on a pier and imagined briefly the startling glimmer on the waves and felt as Borges had explained in his story "The Aleph."

I come now to the ineffable center of my tale; it is here that a writer's hopelessness begins.  Every language is an alphabet of symbols the employment of which assumes a past shared by its interlocutors.  How can one transmit to others the infinite Aleph which my timorous memory can scarcely contain?

He was drawn to the craft of mime at first to practice from the unspoken codex of silence.  The more he considered paradox is when he joined the band as a frontman.  Introduce the band.  Introduce some songs.  Pull out the door jam and hulu hoop, toss tennis balls into the crowd.  Speak loudly and clearly like you just emerged from prolonged understanding.  But above all speak out loud and break the code of silence with rounded and sharp syllables.  He had read the Borges quote on numerous occassions and even once clumsily narrated in Spanish.  More practice, more practice.

Tracy has a thing for potatoes.  Admittedly, the pommes frites she had at the farm were by far the most sumptuous.  Tossed in a small amount of truffle oil, some fleur de sel.  Lately though, her favorite has been potato cakes, though the difficulty and expense of authentic wasabi forces her to resort to the mass produced product.  Either way, she prefers to use a lot of it.  Throwing some smoked salmon on it, a variation of crème fraîche  delicately drizzled from a spoon.  Micro-greens.  Bread crumbs.  She had some down home barbecue style potato cakes when she visited the ranch.  Full of smokiness, bacon bits, pungent green onions and sharp Vermont white cheddar.  Fire roasted tomato and garlic jam infused by a hint of cinnamon.  Chipotle balsamic reduction.

Winston stood up as the sun set.  He remembered the old saying, "kids will be skeletons."  Since he cultivated such a keen sense of symbolism, he knew the saying was really a song by Mogwai.   He flipped the tape over to E.P. (2) by Awning and followed his future footprints down the shore.

Distracted from Festivus

The festivus tradition of airing out grievances was held in silent fashion tonite.  I failed to install the proper ritual to my inward ranting, but I think the process of my life allows room for improvisation.  Most of my complaints are self-directed as I compare my creative endeavours to others', my minimalistic lifestyle to opulence, or my whimsical daydream notion of success to actual motivation.  To say I follow verb tense practically is partially correct and I easily overlook such discrepancies by listening to music instead.  Tonite's choice?  Hacia Dos Veranos from Argentina:

 Ignacio Aguiló: guitar

Diego Martínez: bass

           Julia Bayse: flute, keyboards

    Andrés Edelstein: drums

Their music can be located here at their bandcamp page

I first heard about Hacia Dos Veranos from a friend in Second Life.  Inworld he's known as Pupito Helstein, guitarist for the band Engrama or [Engrama].  Accompanying him, lakua Aruaga on drums.  They play live sets in Second Life and occassionally stream live video feeds of their performances.  Currently they maintain a sim (short for simulator [sim processes]) called The Ionic Spell, a dazzlingly postmodern environment with modest retro houses, period furniture a la 1969, and other subtle details that lend it darkly nostalgic resonance.  You'll find an art gallery where current artists' works are displayed, record players with stacks of virtual vinyl, and other simulacra tucked into nooks and crannies.  When there is no live music, the sim streams electro postrock from somafm which is a nice addition to the mood while exploring.  Pupito was the drummer for Hacia Dos Veranos, but he and lakua currently reside in Vitoria, Álava, Spain.

Part of my culinary experience took place in an interesting spot in Asheville called Zambra.  The cuisine was a fusion of north African and Spanish, with creative license applied as well.  One of my favorite dishes was the pan seared scallops which were served with a sauce composed of a spice mix called Ras El Hanout and coconut milk.  Though not technically traditional, the dish stood up to the bold wine list.  I learned about tapas through my experience at Zambra and later applied a similar approach when I ran the kitchen at a spot called Bamboo Room which was an extension of the now defunct Akumi.  Akumi was on Wall Street, and I always loved that area during fall when the Ginkgo biloba trees glowed brilliant yellow.



Where Am I Going?

I do a radio program for WTTU 88.5 FM called "Cooking with Sound."  Much like everything else I do, it is a collage of fiction, food, and music.  I enjoy making up the stories for all the characters I use, and in some cases, those characters either are real people or resemble real people.  I exaggerate their music preferences in order to allow a semblance of character to shine.  When I do talk about food, it is usually based on something one of them had taught me. 

I plan on developing my idea when my show starts again in January.  It is always evolving, I can't really figure out how to define what I wish to convey, but I know there is something lurking that must be expressed.  By allowing the show to rely a great deal on spontaneity, I believe it assumes an organic quality.  How's that for paradox?  Music generated through some digital means, transmitted, and either streamed from the internet or played on a radio.  I don't own a radio.  How can it be organic if all the ingredients for the show are synthetic?  For one, the idea emanates from an organic entity, me.  I'm the one who chooses the songs, contrives the stories, and shares them with other organic entities who might be listening.  It is like sitting around a glowing screen of fire while we describe our daily experiences.  Only this is a one way street where it's just me talking.  There lies another issue.  How can something be labeled a lie if there is some kernel of truth from which it sprouts?  I have heard people say all of communication is essentially a lie because to convey our relationship with reality requires media reliant upon the creator.  Therefore, this subjective interpretation of reality is relayed and subsequently, removed from the truth of a thing.  But once something exists, even in a field of symbols, it too achieves a life of its own.  It becomes another construct that infiltrates consciousness and shapes it.  Maybe it is all one big lie, but it is a lie that is innocent in its infancy.  All we have is what we experience.  Maybe the idea of truth is the greatest delusion of all.

The one thing that amazes me about cooking is how precise it is in application.  There are shortcuts and alterations, but essentially the process either works or it doesn't.  Try making whipped cream out of heavy cream in a food processor.  Walk away to check on something else and return several minutes later.  Now you see that it has turned into butter, which isn't such a bad thing, but one that does not serve a likely purpose on that Strawberry Shortbread Delight that has delighted the clientele since 1990.  My point is that there are parameters within cooking that must be followed or else your end product ends up hardly resembling the vision of it.  So maybe a marinara sauce lacking an anchovy undernote could be considered a lie.  Or a buerre blanc that fails to utilize vinegar.  You probably shouldn't use ham hocks to make a chocolate cake or add olive oil to your fluffy meringue.  There is a degree of translation involved in food preparation.  Common sense most often prevails in most procedures, no chewing gum with the pasta, no crushed clam shells in the creme brulee.  It may sound ridiculous.

If what we perceive, before we even start to think about it, constitutes the truth, and what we interpret after is a lie, then there's really no debate.  All attempts at communicating are inherently flawed and cannot be trusted.  As evidenced by things in this world that have been made, whether buildings or dandelion wine, there is something beyond our inclination to call something lie or truth.  Some things work, some things fail.  Whether truth or lie is all an illusion.  What works, works.  What doesn't ends up being another idea, equally real but less effective.

It was Gone in the Blink of an I.

There I was again, preparing fried potatoes. I had cut them all into perfect shapes, blanched them in one hundred fifty degree oil, and was ready to go. I dropped the first handful into the oil and winced as the oil coated the tip of my middle finger and sent searing pain through me, down to my toes. It was not the first time it happened either. Being burned is a right of passage in kitchens. No one talks about it much at dinner parties. It's usually, "What is your favorite dish?" or "How do I keep my hollandaise from breaking?" Which are both very good questions.

My favorite dish usually involves some kind of seafood served with sides that aren't creamy and delicious, like polenta or risotto. I prefer pairing rice (but NOT risotto) with my seafood. Forget about cheese. I don't think the two go very well together unless it's a fried fish sandwich on the Gulf Coast. Then cheese is okay. Really I enjoy making sauces most. In regards to the first question about hollandaise, the best way to keep it from breaking is to make it correctly. Keep whisking and don't let the egg yolks scramble.  Add the melted butter while whisking, again be careful not to scramble the yolks.  It is a dance with danger though, because you cannot keep hollandaise refrigerated OR on heat. It will congeal to a gloppy mess if too cold, or break apart if too warm. So you keep it at room temperature and if you are a big fan of Sunday brunches in the early afternoon, you must realize that the hollandaise on your Eggs Benedict might have been sitting out at room temperature since 7 o'clock that morning. Though it seems step heavy, it is a great preparation to try at home while being seduced by world news. Don't worry too much though because most places these days don't even make hollandaise sauce. They buy powder or paste products to which you add water and whisk into fake hollandaise. The amount of chemicals present in those products will ensure a healthy and delicious two o'clock PM Sunday afternoon Eggs Benedict experience.

There is a danger zone with food, mainly protein based, and sitting out for longer than four hours at a stretch. Bacteria loves that environment and often vacations there for reproduction. They migrate over from the mess someone never cleaned up on the floor under the reach in across the kitchen. Where the whipped cream dribbled during a busy rush the night before. No one really thinks about these things because face it, chefs are all conscientious and concerned with public health. Just imagine all those man hours spent just caring about how clean and sanitary the work surfaces are. Even the floor.

There is also no quick cure for being burned.  It's going to hurt like hell for a little while and the only thing you really can do is try to understand the sound that the pain is making in your brain. There are momentary pauses though, like if you put mustard on the burn, or cold water, or in some cases egg whites. Everyone has a cure that they swear works but to this day none has worked for me except trying to understand the sound. And I still can't put my finger on it.

It is a piercing sound, and a throbbing sound. All at once it is red and orange and yellow. The reason they call them warm colors becomes apparent through the sound. It also reminds you of other places that are hurting within you. Forget it if you have a broken heart and you burn your arm. Might as well brand it with a hot poker. Crimson or scarlet. Like sharp and pointy angles of the isosceles through the enigma of goo.

Do not ever, EVER, add a roux to a broken hollandaise because that is just plain wrong. Suck it up and do it all over again. When cooking with hot oil, pay close attention so it does not splash back on your soft and waiting skin. Though the pain is intense, it lasts no longer than it takes for the nerves to calm down. Usually that occurs in the blink of an I. Adding roux to broken sauces is also a staple for professional chefs who don't have time to start over again. Trust them, they have your best interest and health in mind. All the myths about kitchens and alcohol and drug use are completely fabricated. How could one possibly make the best food while cloudy in the head?

Water at one hundred ten degrees, vigorous scrubbing with some form of cleaning agent, during the time it takes to sing the ABC's in your head. This will make your hands clean for touching stuff to put on other people's plates. Next time you are in a public washroom, notice how people briefly run cold water over their hands before initiating the automatic paper towel dispenser. My personal favorite is seeing the chef on television cut the chicken on the cutting board, wipe their hands on a towel, and proceed to assemble that delicious Caesar salad dressing.  Another process of preparation to perfect without it breaking.  One that hopefully does not include Salmonella and offers a nice complement to a bed of chopped romaine lettuce, two grape tomatoes, a handful of croutons, and a filet of blackened salmon.   

Failure is Always an Option.

Don't let the person in the crooked toque lean in too closely and convince you that picking yourself up is the right thing to do. Sometimes it's appropriate but sometimes the mistake, or the failure, is what actually propels you towards the next big thing.

Look at it like this. I tried to find an interesting stuffed French toast recipe to share with you, and realized there were over 13,000,000 different variations. I chose one, cooked it at home, and made a big marshmallow mess all over the stovetop.  I should have stuck with the first one that caught my eye.

Then instead, I chose to make this blog to provide a glimpse into the reality of cooking. The blisters and the aches. Cooking as a profession is getting away with showcasing some kind of glamour, but yet, check out the celebrity chefs when they fail. The karma of seeing their disappointment publicly lends authority to the idea that failing is okay. Because look at them.

Look at how she alludes to a Greek god at the end of the dish. Someone familiar and secure like Cassandra. Couldn't see that one coming she says. Like Ramsay's disdain for truffle oil and his wikipedia'd quote about its pungency. It's a travesty to have it in your pantry but it's absolutely great tossed with pommes frites or roasted beets. You see, this is not your ordinary glimpse into how to cook or might not even have much to do about food in general. Like those poems that inundate the market nowadays with which all young poets must be familiar if they are to succeed. You must name places. Keep it simple and let the last line bring the reader to their knees. Don't fool anyone including yourself. Always avoid exclamation marks and parantheses especially if you think you need to use them. Clean up after yourself, for god's sake, when you've finished each poem. I am walking through this alley. The splashing light dimples against the puddled gloom. They take pictures of themselves because they are in love and have been to Bangkok, Lima, and Digeridoo. Let the wind slide across your thighs. Be shy towards the audience but speak up in ca dence with the rhy thm of the words. Know the rules and break them. Keep failing because if you succeed you end up just like them. On display and fornicating with the abyss.