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"disqusTitle": "I Killed Audrey Hepburn",
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"headTitle": "Bay Area Bites | KQED Food",
"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Poison-Crush.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Poison-Crush.jpg\" alt=\"Poison crush. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"400\" class=\"alignleft size-full wp-image-81256\">\u003c/a>It’s true that travel can broaden the mind but, in rare cases, it can also lead to an international celebrity killing spree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for mine here and now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started so innocently. I was sixteen years old and on my first trip to Europe. I sat next to an auburn-haired 14 year-old, who did her best to impress me with her general nonchalance regarding celebrity. Her father, it turned out, was a popular Emmy-winning actor on a hit television show. She mentioned that Peter Sellers occasionally slept on the family couch as casually as another 14 year-old girl might mention she occasionally had pudding for breakfast. Knowing she may have seen Inspector Clouseau in his pajamas, I was under the impression that no one famous could cause her to lose her poise and was therefore rightly impressed. I wasn’t much older than she and was already guilty of nearly wetting myself with excitement upon witnessing \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFnqhefkQJw\" target=\"_blank\">Ann Miller\u003c/a> allowing her dog to defecate on my aunt and uncle’s front lawn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But her cool, Hollywood attitude was destroyed on that flight to London. Restless after hours of sitting, my new friend decided to stretch her legs. Her preferred method of calisthenics included climbing up the spiral staircase of our Pan Am jet which led directly to the first class cabin. I admired her nerve but wondered how long it would take for her to be ejected by a rabidly class-conscious flight attendant. She was gone for what seemed like ages, and when she reappeared somewhere over the North Atlantic, stopped half-way down the steps and stared at me. Or quite possibly through me. Flushed and shaking, she returned to her seat next and whispered, “Cary. Grant.” she halted, “is on this plane. Cary Grant is up \u003cem>there\u003c/em>.” I followed her look upward with my own and we stared at the ceiling as one would stare up at heaven, because Paradise to us at that moment was a first class cabin paved not with clouds, but with red carpet, and populated by a single, silver-haired, cleft-chinned angel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We spent the remainder of the flight more or less silent. We were fortunate enough to be near the front of the plane and so were the first from cattle class to disembark. We spotted the object of our adoration and ran up behind him, then slowed to keep ourselves a few respectful paces behind; our heads tilted in awe at the back of his head. We continued to worship him in this manner for a few minutes until he disappeared behind a door. Quite possibly the men’s room. And just like that, the spell was broken.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He died four months later. I was saddened by his death but felt no guilt. I was too young to know that I may have been the cause.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On another excursion six years later, I met my brother at Charles de Gaulle airport to fly back home to California. After catching up on our separate adventures, we checked in for our flight home. Doug thought he might try charming the woman behind the counter to see if he could wrangle a ticket upgrade. My French has never been very good, but I somehow understood the most important part of their conversation: “I’d love to help you sir, however our First and Business Classes are full. But I’ll let you in on a little secret… Audrey Hepburn is on your flight today! And so is Julia Roberts!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Telling two gay men that Audrey Hepburn is on their flight might be considered an extreme breach of security today, but everything was much more relaxed in the 1990s. Except for the two of us, thanks to this important piece of information. I’d planned to grab a drink somewhere before boarding, but that was now out of the question. I was intoxicated enough at the thought of sharing the same cabin-filtered air as my favorite film star in the Hollywood firmament. But our excitement turned to extreme anxiety when we saw Miss Hepburn being escorted onto the plane in a wheelchair, much thinner and frail-looking than usual. For the second time in my life, I was rendered silent by a celebrity over the Atlantic Ocean, but this time it wasn’t from excitement, it was from worry. The eleven-hour flight felt like eleven years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Four months later, I learned of her death from cancer. I nearly cancelled my card night with friends, but decided against it, thinking it might help crowd out the sad news from my mind for a few hours, but the evening ended with my feeling worse that I did before. “Did you guys hear Audrey Hepburn died today?” my friend Itay asked without a hint of emotion. But then again, we were playing poker. I shared with the room what I’d seen of her on my flight home from Paris and told them about the coincidence of Cary Grant, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Well clearly you’re to blame for both of their deaths,” he said. His face was obscured behind his cards. “Remind me never to fly with you– you’re like some time-release killer or something.” As the only gay man in the room, I found both his lack of emotion and the general absence of sympathy for either Miss Hepburn or– more importantly– for me around that table deeply upsetting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Why couldn’t it have been Julia Roberts?” I asked to no one and to everyone. I’d wanted to yell it, but held myself back, so the words came out in a sort of dry squeak, which made me sound exceptionally pathetic. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, Itay spoke up. “Just keep an eye on the obituaries. Maybe it’ll turn out you killed her, too.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And with that, the poker game continued more or less interrupted, but I left feeling dirty and diseased. I didn’t speak of this coincidence again for a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wouldn’t be the last time I’d be called toxic by another human being, but was I really that lethal? How many other lives had I claimed by simply breathing the same recirculated air? I was tired of feeling responsible for the earthly exits of these two people adored by the entire film-going world. For years, every time I entered the cabin of an airplane, I would scan the first class seats for the elderly famous, hoping to warn them to flee while there was still time. I could no longer bear the weight of my guilty burden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I decided to rid myself of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There had to be another reason for their deaths. But what sort of connection could two extremely famous and beloved actors from Hollywood’s Golden Age possibly have other than myself? After extensive research, I discovered that Hepburn and Grant had, in fact, met before. They made a film together in 1963 entitled \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMkeqjacvAU\" target=\"_blank\">Charade\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I watched the film over and over, searching for clues– anything that might exonerate myself and free me from my own unintentionally-criminal pain. Did they eat both something that might have spoiled on the set during production, which may have ultimately lead to their deaths 23 and 30 years later? No, they did not. Hepburn only eats in front of Walter Matthau– a chicken sandwich as he speaks with his mouth full of liverwurst. A French onion soup is ordered, but pushed away in favor of cigarettes. Endless amounts of what seem to be breath mints are consumed, but only by her. The one time the two stars sit down together for a meal, they do not touch it, but chose to talk in veiled terms about intercourse instead. There was a double ice cream cone Hepburn manages to get a lick or two from, but the rest winds up on Grant’s lapel. I was near the end of my emotional tether, about to give up on my search, when I suddenly hit upon the key to my own innocence: \u003cstrong>An orange.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Orange.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Orange.jpg\" alt=\"Orange with poison. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"500\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-81255\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The fruity object of an innocent but sexually suggestive game may very well have been the agent of their slow deaths. I was certain of it. In one particular scene, the Master of Ceremonies at Le Black Sheep Club has patrons line up to pass an orange from one player’s neck to the other’s without the benefit of their hands. All of the actors who came in contact with the offending citrus are now dead: Hepburn. Grant. Ned Glass, the villain to whom Hepburn passes the orange before fleeing was the first to die in 1984. And what of the ample-fronted woman who starts the game? Her career, at the very least, is dead. It became clear to me that someone– most likely a psychotic prop master or vengeance-seeking wardrobe mistress– had poisoned that orange. I briefly wondered what the motive behind this act of horror could have been, but realized that such things are often a waste of time when dealing with the emotionally deranged.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[youtube //www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAcZZtZyfMs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I looked up various slow-acting poisons which might have been used. Hemlock? No evidence of paralysis present in any of the victims. Dimethylmercury? Possible, but difficult do disguise. Tetrodotoxin? Doubtful. Too fast-acting and difficult to come by unless one has ready access to puffer fish. Cyanide? Too much discoloration. Which leaves but one obvious answer: arsenic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It would be a simple matter to coat an orange with arsenic and let it sit until some of the poison absorbs into the skin of the fruit. The prolonged contact with human flesh– endless takes for what looks like a difficult scene to perfect– would be all the murderer needed to get the contamination ball rolling. But how did he or she continue this deadly scheme and keep the victims’ arsenic levels at a steady but still-undetectable level? In two ways, I have decided: 1) by gifting his victims annual holiday citrus baskets and 2) consistently providing oranges for all major airline carriers with clearly marked instructions which read “For Celebrity Cocktails Only.” It was a brilliant plan. And I felt equally brilliant for uncovering it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before I start popping the champagne to celebrate my freedom from a self-inflicted manslaughter rap, I must remind myself that this is only a theory. And one which has not been thoroughly tested at that. All I can really do is wait and see. So I shall wait for Julia Roberts* to get a few more years on her, book the same flight as she, offer her a cocktail with a slice of innocent-looking orange muddled in it, and keep a close eye on the obituaries for the next four months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_81254\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 560px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Old-Fashioned.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Old-Fashioned.jpg\" alt=\"Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"560\" class=\"size-full wp-image-81254\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>I have no evidence that Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant ever shared a round of these beverages together, but I can guarantee that the combination of alcohol, tainted orange, and recycled airplane oxygen makes for a deadly delicious drink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Makes \u003cstrong>one\u003c/strong> generous cocktail suitable for your favorite old fashioned movie star.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1 Valencia orange\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup powdered arsenic (organic)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 maraschino or Amarena cherries: 1 for muddling and the other for garnish\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 sugar cubes\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>About four dashes of Angostura bitters\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 airline bottles of whiskey\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>A splash of club soda\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Ice\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Thoroughly wash and drip-dry the orange to remove any pesticides. With gloved hands, dump the arsenic powder onto a small plate and roll the citrus around in it until it is fully coated. Let sit for up to three days. When you are ready to make this cocktail, wipe the skin of the orange clean so that no white powder is noticeable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. When you are ready to serve your drink, roll the orange on a generously-fronted German woman until the juice cells of the fruit are sufficiently loosened. Cut a 1/4″ inch slice from the from the orange and then cut that slice in half. Place one half in the bottom of an old fashioned glass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. Add your 2 sugar cubes, 1 cherry, and 4 dashes of bitters to the glass, then show no mercy as you pummel the ingredients until they are more or less unrecognizable. Remove the orange. It has done it’s work. Or leave it in for extra oomph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. Pour in the splash of club soda and stir until the ingredients are sufficiently mingled. Add ice, then fill the glass to the top with whiskey. Garnish with the second cherry and the other half of orange slice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. Serve to any remaining stars of Hollywood’s Golden Age, like Olivia de Havilland or \u003cdel datetime=\"2014-05-02T23:34:53+00:00\">Mickey Rooney\u003c/del>. Or even Eli Wallach. There aren’t many left to choose from.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Repeat every four months until the desired effect has been achieved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>* I must apologize to Miss Roberts, who will more than likely never read this post. I have nothing against this actress in the least and, in fact, find her rather likable.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Michael Procopio shares a story about adolescent innocence, travel, synchronicity, and Hollywood stars. A recipe for a Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail is included.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Poison-Crush.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Poison-Crush.jpg\" alt=\"Poison crush. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"400\" class=\"alignleft size-full wp-image-81256\">\u003c/a>It’s true that travel can broaden the mind but, in rare cases, it can also lead to an international celebrity killing spree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize for mine here and now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It started so innocently. I was sixteen years old and on my first trip to Europe. I sat next to an auburn-haired 14 year-old, who did her best to impress me with her general nonchalance regarding celebrity. Her father, it turned out, was a popular Emmy-winning actor on a hit television show. She mentioned that Peter Sellers occasionally slept on the family couch as casually as another 14 year-old girl might mention she occasionally had pudding for breakfast. Knowing she may have seen Inspector Clouseau in his pajamas, I was under the impression that no one famous could cause her to lose her poise and was therefore rightly impressed. I wasn’t much older than she and was already guilty of nearly wetting myself with excitement upon witnessing \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFnqhefkQJw\" target=\"_blank\">Ann Miller\u003c/a> allowing her dog to defecate on my aunt and uncle’s front lawn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But her cool, Hollywood attitude was destroyed on that flight to London. Restless after hours of sitting, my new friend decided to stretch her legs. Her preferred method of calisthenics included climbing up the spiral staircase of our Pan Am jet which led directly to the first class cabin. I admired her nerve but wondered how long it would take for her to be ejected by a rabidly class-conscious flight attendant. She was gone for what seemed like ages, and when she reappeared somewhere over the North Atlantic, stopped half-way down the steps and stared at me. Or quite possibly through me. Flushed and shaking, she returned to her seat next and whispered, “Cary. Grant.” she halted, “is on this plane. Cary Grant is up \u003cem>there\u003c/em>.” I followed her look upward with my own and we stared at the ceiling as one would stare up at heaven, because Paradise to us at that moment was a first class cabin paved not with clouds, but with red carpet, and populated by a single, silver-haired, cleft-chinned angel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We spent the remainder of the flight more or less silent. We were fortunate enough to be near the front of the plane and so were the first from cattle class to disembark. We spotted the object of our adoration and ran up behind him, then slowed to keep ourselves a few respectful paces behind; our heads tilted in awe at the back of his head. We continued to worship him in this manner for a few minutes until he disappeared behind a door. Quite possibly the men’s room. And just like that, the spell was broken.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He died four months later. I was saddened by his death but felt no guilt. I was too young to know that I may have been the cause.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On another excursion six years later, I met my brother at Charles de Gaulle airport to fly back home to California. After catching up on our separate adventures, we checked in for our flight home. Doug thought he might try charming the woman behind the counter to see if he could wrangle a ticket upgrade. My French has never been very good, but I somehow understood the most important part of their conversation: “I’d love to help you sir, however our First and Business Classes are full. But I’ll let you in on a little secret… Audrey Hepburn is on your flight today! And so is Julia Roberts!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Telling two gay men that Audrey Hepburn is on their flight might be considered an extreme breach of security today, but everything was much more relaxed in the 1990s. Except for the two of us, thanks to this important piece of information. I’d planned to grab a drink somewhere before boarding, but that was now out of the question. I was intoxicated enough at the thought of sharing the same cabin-filtered air as my favorite film star in the Hollywood firmament. But our excitement turned to extreme anxiety when we saw Miss Hepburn being escorted onto the plane in a wheelchair, much thinner and frail-looking than usual. For the second time in my life, I was rendered silent by a celebrity over the Atlantic Ocean, but this time it wasn’t from excitement, it was from worry. The eleven-hour flight felt like eleven years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Four months later, I learned of her death from cancer. I nearly cancelled my card night with friends, but decided against it, thinking it might help crowd out the sad news from my mind for a few hours, but the evening ended with my feeling worse that I did before. “Did you guys hear Audrey Hepburn died today?” my friend Itay asked without a hint of emotion. But then again, we were playing poker. I shared with the room what I’d seen of her on my flight home from Paris and told them about the coincidence of Cary Grant, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Well clearly you’re to blame for both of their deaths,” he said. His face was obscured behind his cards. “Remind me never to fly with you– you’re like some time-release killer or something.” As the only gay man in the room, I found both his lack of emotion and the general absence of sympathy for either Miss Hepburn or– more importantly– for me around that table deeply upsetting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Why couldn’t it have been Julia Roberts?” I asked to no one and to everyone. I’d wanted to yell it, but held myself back, so the words came out in a sort of dry squeak, which made me sound exceptionally pathetic. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, Itay spoke up. “Just keep an eye on the obituaries. Maybe it’ll turn out you killed her, too.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And with that, the poker game continued more or less interrupted, but I left feeling dirty and diseased. I didn’t speak of this coincidence again for a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wouldn’t be the last time I’d be called toxic by another human being, but was I really that lethal? How many other lives had I claimed by simply breathing the same recirculated air? I was tired of feeling responsible for the earthly exits of these two people adored by the entire film-going world. For years, every time I entered the cabin of an airplane, I would scan the first class seats for the elderly famous, hoping to warn them to flee while there was still time. I could no longer bear the weight of my guilty burden.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I decided to rid myself of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There had to be another reason for their deaths. But what sort of connection could two extremely famous and beloved actors from Hollywood’s Golden Age possibly have other than myself? After extensive research, I discovered that Hepburn and Grant had, in fact, met before. They made a film together in 1963 entitled \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMkeqjacvAU\" target=\"_blank\">Charade\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I watched the film over and over, searching for clues– anything that might exonerate myself and free me from my own unintentionally-criminal pain. Did they eat both something that might have spoiled on the set during production, which may have ultimately lead to their deaths 23 and 30 years later? No, they did not. Hepburn only eats in front of Walter Matthau– a chicken sandwich as he speaks with his mouth full of liverwurst. A French onion soup is ordered, but pushed away in favor of cigarettes. Endless amounts of what seem to be breath mints are consumed, but only by her. The one time the two stars sit down together for a meal, they do not touch it, but chose to talk in veiled terms about intercourse instead. There was a double ice cream cone Hepburn manages to get a lick or two from, but the rest winds up on Grant’s lapel. I was near the end of my emotional tether, about to give up on my search, when I suddenly hit upon the key to my own innocence: \u003cstrong>An orange.\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Orange.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Orange.jpg\" alt=\"Orange with poison. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"500\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-81255\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The fruity object of an innocent but sexually suggestive game may very well have been the agent of their slow deaths. I was certain of it. In one particular scene, the Master of Ceremonies at Le Black Sheep Club has patrons line up to pass an orange from one player’s neck to the other’s without the benefit of their hands. All of the actors who came in contact with the offending citrus are now dead: Hepburn. Grant. Ned Glass, the villain to whom Hepburn passes the orange before fleeing was the first to die in 1984. And what of the ample-fronted woman who starts the game? Her career, at the very least, is dead. It became clear to me that someone– most likely a psychotic prop master or vengeance-seeking wardrobe mistress– had poisoned that orange. I briefly wondered what the motive behind this act of horror could have been, but realized that such things are often a waste of time when dealing with the emotionally deranged.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/pAcZZtZyfMs'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/pAcZZtZyfMs'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I looked up various slow-acting poisons which might have been used. Hemlock? No evidence of paralysis present in any of the victims. Dimethylmercury? Possible, but difficult do disguise. Tetrodotoxin? Doubtful. Too fast-acting and difficult to come by unless one has ready access to puffer fish. Cyanide? Too much discoloration. Which leaves but one obvious answer: arsenic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It would be a simple matter to coat an orange with arsenic and let it sit until some of the poison absorbs into the skin of the fruit. The prolonged contact with human flesh– endless takes for what looks like a difficult scene to perfect– would be all the murderer needed to get the contamination ball rolling. But how did he or she continue this deadly scheme and keep the victims’ arsenic levels at a steady but still-undetectable level? In two ways, I have decided: 1) by gifting his victims annual holiday citrus baskets and 2) consistently providing oranges for all major airline carriers with clearly marked instructions which read “For Celebrity Cocktails Only.” It was a brilliant plan. And I felt equally brilliant for uncovering it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before I start popping the champagne to celebrate my freedom from a self-inflicted manslaughter rap, I must remind myself that this is only a theory. And one which has not been thoroughly tested at that. All I can really do is wait and see. So I shall wait for Julia Roberts* to get a few more years on her, book the same flight as she, offer her a cocktail with a slice of innocent-looking orange muddled in it, and keep a close eye on the obituaries for the next four months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_81254\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 560px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Old-Fashioned.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/05/Old-Fashioned.jpg\" alt=\"Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"560\" class=\"size-full wp-image-81254\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>Slow-Acting Old Fashioned Cocktail\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>I have no evidence that Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant ever shared a round of these beverages together, but I can guarantee that the combination of alcohol, tainted orange, and recycled airplane oxygen makes for a deadly delicious drink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Makes \u003cstrong>one\u003c/strong> generous cocktail suitable for your favorite old fashioned movie star.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1 Valencia orange\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup powdered arsenic (organic)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 maraschino or Amarena cherries: 1 for muddling and the other for garnish\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 sugar cubes\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>About four dashes of Angostura bitters\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 airline bottles of whiskey\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>A splash of club soda\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Ice\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Thoroughly wash and drip-dry the orange to remove any pesticides. With gloved hands, dump the arsenic powder onto a small plate and roll the citrus around in it until it is fully coated. Let sit for up to three days. When you are ready to make this cocktail, wipe the skin of the orange clean so that no white powder is noticeable.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. When you are ready to serve your drink, roll the orange on a generously-fronted German woman until the juice cells of the fruit are sufficiently loosened. Cut a 1/4″ inch slice from the from the orange and then cut that slice in half. Place one half in the bottom of an old fashioned glass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. Add your 2 sugar cubes, 1 cherry, and 4 dashes of bitters to the glass, then show no mercy as you pummel the ingredients until they are more or less unrecognizable. Remove the orange. It has done it’s work. Or leave it in for extra oomph.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. Pour in the splash of club soda and stir until the ingredients are sufficiently mingled. Add ice, then fill the glass to the top with whiskey. Garnish with the second cherry and the other half of orange slice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. Serve to any remaining stars of Hollywood’s Golden Age, like Olivia de Havilland or \u003cdel datetime=\"2014-05-02T23:34:53+00:00\">Mickey Rooney\u003c/del>. Or even Eli Wallach. There aren’t many left to choose from.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Repeat every four months until the desired effect has been achieved.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>* I must apologize to Miss Roberts, who will more than likely never read this post. I have nothing against this actress in the least and, in fact, find her rather likable.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "The Patron Saint of TV Dinners",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_81032\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1448px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/TV-Dinner.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/TV-Dinner.jpg\" alt=\"TV Dinner. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"1448\" height=\"1086\" class=\"size-full wp-image-81032\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">TV Dinner. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I can’t remember how old I was when I first saw her standing on top of my neighbor’s television set, but I do remember the feeling of not being able to look away. She was tiny– no more than five inches tall– but her presence was large enough to pull my focus away from the action on the screen to her absolute stillness above it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I asked my friend’s mother why there was a little statue of The Virgin Mary on top of their Sylvania, she corrected me in a tone which faintly suggested that her family were better Catholics than mine would ever be. “Oh, Honey, that isn’t the Virgin Mary. That’s \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clare_of_Assisi\">\u003cstrong>St. Clare of Assisi\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>– she’s the patron saint of television.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I approached the plastic idol with what I hoped was a reverential pace to examine her more closely. She held one hand upward in a gesture of blessing and her face looked up to the heavens. Or perhaps she was simply keeping an eye on the antenna which was fastened to the roof directly above. It was impossible to tell. I tried to pick her up, but discovered that she wouldn’t budge from her place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d heard of people having their eyes glued to their television sets, but never their feet. It was a day of firsts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I came home, I took my usual place at dinner– the seat farthest from my mom. It was the lowest position in the family pecking order, but it also happened to be the only chair at the table which afforded a clear view of the family room and the television in it, which was always miraculously turned on and which I always (just as miraculously) got away with watching. I could now tune out the conversation of my older siblings and tune in to early evening network programming knowing there was a new saint in my life who was watching over me as I ate in silence, just like (as I would learn many years later) the sisters of the Franciscan Order founded by her, The Poor Clares.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I felt doubly protected by Saint Clare on the evenings my working mother was too tired to cook dinner and resorted to the convenience of pre-packaged meals. Eating a Swanson’s TV Dinner by the distant glow of our television set now seemed like a holy act, as I experienced the agony of eating reheated peas and carrots without complaint– a supreme expression of childhood piety– so that I might move on to the ecstasy of dessert which nested between the mashed potato and vegetable compartments of the aluminum serving tray.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But such rapture was never to be found at the end of a tv dinner. The sweet portion of the meal was clearly an afterthought on the part of its creator. Frequently under baked and always flavorless, it was consumed without joy. I suffered from a rare type of frozen dinner amnesia which lead to a near-perpetual state of disappointment in this matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I never thought to ask her to intercede on my behalf to the Swanson’s Frozen Food Company because I wasn’t certain that was her department, so I would pray to no one in particular that there was ice cream to be had in the freezer instead\u003cstrong>*\u003c/strong>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I saved my prayers to St. Clare for the really important stuff, like making sure The Muppet Show would never, ever be cancelled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_81031\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1086px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/Roman-Apple-Cake.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/Roman-Apple-Cake.jpg\" alt=\"Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"1086\" height=\"1448\" class=\"size-full wp-image-81031\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>It’s clear to me that St. Clare of Assisi wields a true heavenly power, for there is no other explanation for three seasons of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnhgpVb-u5s\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cstrong>The Flying Nun\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In life, St. Clare of Assisi was an early follower of St. Francis, also of Assisi. She was a daughter of noble parents who shed her earthy riches to take a vow of extreme poverty, ultimately founding a religious order (The Poor Clares) who still follow her example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>St. Clare was given the job of watching over the world’s television sets in 1958 by Pope Pius XII, who based his decision on the story that, when Clare was too ill to attend Mass in person, The Holy Spirit projected the proceedings onto her bedroom wall so that she might both see and hear it happen, which gives weight to the idea that flat screen tvs are truly a godsend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for her divine help in creating a decent tv dinner dessert, that remains to be seen. I have what I once thought was a solid childhood memory of one of these “treats” being labeled “Roman apple cake”, but I can find nothing to confirm this as fact. My sister Lori doesn’t remember such a thing, but then again, she doesn’t remember seeing \u003ca href=\"http://foodforthethoughtless.com/2011/07/john-wayne-meatball-recipe/\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cstrong>John Wayne’s testicles\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> either, so there’s that. It has been a true test of my faith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But that name didn’t appear out of the blue. There is such a dessert, but it is not the one from my memory. The recipe below is simply one I made up. But I’m afraid to take sole credit for its creation because it may very well be the result of St. Clare’s gentle, guiding hand coming to my aid after all these years. God’s helpers move in mysterious ways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It is a simple dessert, but one which requires a smidgen of straightforward, honest labor, which the Poor Clares tend to look upon favorably. It is not terribly sweet, but the reward of making it with your own hands instead of pulling it out of a cardboard box to thaw may very well bring you an inch or two closer to God.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Serves: Enough.\u003c/strong> You should thank the Lord you’re getting any dessert at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>For the batter:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cli>1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup of white sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon of salt\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/4 teaspoon of baking powder\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon of baking soda\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup of milk\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup of vegetable oil\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon of vanilla extract\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 egg\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 cups of thinly sliced (peeled and cored) apples (2 apples suffice. I use Pink Ladies.)\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>For the Frangipane:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>3 ounces of almond paste\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>3 tablespoons of butter at room temperature\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 tablespoon of flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 egg\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>For the Crumble Topping:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1 cup all purpose flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup white sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup light brown sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup slivered almonds\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon vanilla extract\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>8 tablespoons of butter, melted but cooled\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>a heavy pinch of salt\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Make the crumble topping first by combining all of its ingredients together and mixing it with your (clean) hands, because this method is both effective and feels wonderful. Place the topping in the freezer to chill, which facilitates clumping, which is a highly desirable feature in this particular case.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Pre-heat your oven to 350°F. Butter the inside of an 8×8-inch baking dish and set aside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. To make the frangipane, combine all of its ingredients together and mix until they are in complete harmony. Set aside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. To make the cake batter, combine all of the dry ingredients together and stir. Then combine the oil, egg, milk, and vanilla extract and beat until unified. Add these wet ingredients gradually to the dry and mix until thoroughly one. \u003cstrong>There should be no apples in the batter at this point. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. Spread about 1/3 of batter into your baking dish to form a solid foundation for the cake. Next, generously dot the surface of this layer with frangipane. You will have plenty of frangipane left over which you may then give to the poor, thus gaining Clare’s good favor and ensuring that your cake will be a success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>6. Add the sliced apples to the remaining batter, thoroughly coating them. Pour all of it over your frangipane dots and gently smooth out the top to a more-or-less even layer. Place a generous coating of crumble topping where it belongs– on top.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>7. Bake on the center rack of your oven for about 1 hour and pray that it rises like a nun’s Holy Bridegroom. Should you find yourself cursed with uncertainty, check it every so often and poke at its center with your finger \u003ca href=\"http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas_by_Caravaggio.jpg\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cstrong>like a doubting St. Thomas\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> until your faith is restored.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>8. Remove from the oven when the center of the cake springs lightly to the touch and the topping is golden brown. Let both your passions and this dessert cool completely before consuming. In fact, wait even longer, if you can– this cake is better on the second day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serve it alone or with lightly sweetened whipped cream. Serve to your loved ones as you watch your favorite (family-friendly) television program. Serve it to the poor. Serve it up to God, if that pleases you. Just please do something with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, as you’re serving it, should any of this cake fall onto your silk tie, your lovely table linen, or your nun’s habit, you can still keep on praying to St. Clare. She just so happens to double as the patron saint of laundry\u003cstrong>**\u003c/strong>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>* \u003c/strong>Sadly, there is no patron saint of ice cream. As yet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>**\u003c/strong> This is completely true.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Michael Procopio shares a childhood story of spirituality, TV dinners and dessert disappointment. He makes up for Swanson’s flawed sweets with a recipe for Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_81032\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1448px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/TV-Dinner.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/TV-Dinner.jpg\" alt=\"TV Dinner. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"1448\" height=\"1086\" class=\"size-full wp-image-81032\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">TV Dinner. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I can’t remember how old I was when I first saw her standing on top of my neighbor’s television set, but I do remember the feeling of not being able to look away. She was tiny– no more than five inches tall– but her presence was large enough to pull my focus away from the action on the screen to her absolute stillness above it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I asked my friend’s mother why there was a little statue of The Virgin Mary on top of their Sylvania, she corrected me in a tone which faintly suggested that her family were better Catholics than mine would ever be. “Oh, Honey, that isn’t the Virgin Mary. That’s \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clare_of_Assisi\">\u003cstrong>St. Clare of Assisi\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>– she’s the patron saint of television.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I approached the plastic idol with what I hoped was a reverential pace to examine her more closely. She held one hand upward in a gesture of blessing and her face looked up to the heavens. Or perhaps she was simply keeping an eye on the antenna which was fastened to the roof directly above. It was impossible to tell. I tried to pick her up, but discovered that she wouldn’t budge from her place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’d heard of people having their eyes glued to their television sets, but never their feet. It was a day of firsts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I came home, I took my usual place at dinner– the seat farthest from my mom. It was the lowest position in the family pecking order, but it also happened to be the only chair at the table which afforded a clear view of the family room and the television in it, which was always miraculously turned on and which I always (just as miraculously) got away with watching. I could now tune out the conversation of my older siblings and tune in to early evening network programming knowing there was a new saint in my life who was watching over me as I ate in silence, just like (as I would learn many years later) the sisters of the Franciscan Order founded by her, The Poor Clares.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I felt doubly protected by Saint Clare on the evenings my working mother was too tired to cook dinner and resorted to the convenience of pre-packaged meals. Eating a Swanson’s TV Dinner by the distant glow of our television set now seemed like a holy act, as I experienced the agony of eating reheated peas and carrots without complaint– a supreme expression of childhood piety– so that I might move on to the ecstasy of dessert which nested between the mashed potato and vegetable compartments of the aluminum serving tray.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But such rapture was never to be found at the end of a tv dinner. The sweet portion of the meal was clearly an afterthought on the part of its creator. Frequently under baked and always flavorless, it was consumed without joy. I suffered from a rare type of frozen dinner amnesia which lead to a near-perpetual state of disappointment in this matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I never thought to ask her to intercede on my behalf to the Swanson’s Frozen Food Company because I wasn’t certain that was her department, so I would pray to no one in particular that there was ice cream to be had in the freezer instead\u003cstrong>*\u003c/strong>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I saved my prayers to St. Clare for the really important stuff, like making sure The Muppet Show would never, ever be cancelled.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_81031\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1086px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/Roman-Apple-Cake.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2014/04/Roman-Apple-Cake.jpg\" alt=\"Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"1086\" height=\"1448\" class=\"size-full wp-image-81031\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>Roman (Catholic) Apple Cake\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>It’s clear to me that St. Clare of Assisi wields a true heavenly power, for there is no other explanation for three seasons of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnhgpVb-u5s\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cstrong>The Flying Nun\u003c/strong>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In life, St. Clare of Assisi was an early follower of St. Francis, also of Assisi. She was a daughter of noble parents who shed her earthy riches to take a vow of extreme poverty, ultimately founding a religious order (The Poor Clares) who still follow her example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>St. Clare was given the job of watching over the world’s television sets in 1958 by Pope Pius XII, who based his decision on the story that, when Clare was too ill to attend Mass in person, The Holy Spirit projected the proceedings onto her bedroom wall so that she might both see and hear it happen, which gives weight to the idea that flat screen tvs are truly a godsend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for her divine help in creating a decent tv dinner dessert, that remains to be seen. I have what I once thought was a solid childhood memory of one of these “treats” being labeled “Roman apple cake”, but I can find nothing to confirm this as fact. My sister Lori doesn’t remember such a thing, but then again, she doesn’t remember seeing \u003ca href=\"http://foodforthethoughtless.com/2011/07/john-wayne-meatball-recipe/\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cstrong>John Wayne’s testicles\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> either, so there’s that. It has been a true test of my faith.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But that name didn’t appear out of the blue. There is such a dessert, but it is not the one from my memory. The recipe below is simply one I made up. But I’m afraid to take sole credit for its creation because it may very well be the result of St. Clare’s gentle, guiding hand coming to my aid after all these years. God’s helpers move in mysterious ways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It is a simple dessert, but one which requires a smidgen of straightforward, honest labor, which the Poor Clares tend to look upon favorably. It is not terribly sweet, but the reward of making it with your own hands instead of pulling it out of a cardboard box to thaw may very well bring you an inch or two closer to God.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Serves: Enough.\u003c/strong> You should thank the Lord you’re getting any dessert at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>For the batter:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cli>1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup of white sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon of salt\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/4 teaspoon of baking powder\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon of baking soda\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup of milk\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup of vegetable oil\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon of vanilla extract\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 egg\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 cups of thinly sliced (peeled and cored) apples (2 apples suffice. I use Pink Ladies.)\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>For the Frangipane:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>3 ounces of almond paste\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>3 tablespoons of butter at room temperature\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 tablespoon of flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 egg\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>For the Crumble Topping:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1 cup all purpose flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup white sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup light brown sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup slivered almonds\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon vanilla extract\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>8 tablespoons of butter, melted but cooled\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>a heavy pinch of salt\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. Make the crumble topping first by combining all of its ingredients together and mixing it with your (clean) hands, because this method is both effective and feels wonderful. Place the topping in the freezer to chill, which facilitates clumping, which is a highly desirable feature in this particular case.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Pre-heat your oven to 350°F. Butter the inside of an 8×8-inch baking dish and set aside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. To make the frangipane, combine all of its ingredients together and mix until they are in complete harmony. Set aside.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. To make the cake batter, combine all of the dry ingredients together and stir. Then combine the oil, egg, milk, and vanilla extract and beat until unified. Add these wet ingredients gradually to the dry and mix until thoroughly one. \u003cstrong>There should be no apples in the batter at this point. \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. Spread about 1/3 of batter into your baking dish to form a solid foundation for the cake. Next, generously dot the surface of this layer with frangipane. You will have plenty of frangipane left over which you may then give to the poor, thus gaining Clare’s good favor and ensuring that your cake will be a success.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>6. Add the sliced apples to the remaining batter, thoroughly coating them. Pour all of it over your frangipane dots and gently smooth out the top to a more-or-less even layer. Place a generous coating of crumble topping where it belongs– on top.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>7. Bake on the center rack of your oven for about 1 hour and pray that it rises like a nun’s Holy Bridegroom. Should you find yourself cursed with uncertainty, check it every so often and poke at its center with your finger \u003ca href=\"http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas_by_Caravaggio.jpg\" target=\"_blank\">\u003cstrong>like a doubting St. Thomas\u003c/strong>\u003c/a> until your faith is restored.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>8. Remove from the oven when the center of the cake springs lightly to the touch and the topping is golden brown. Let both your passions and this dessert cool completely before consuming. In fact, wait even longer, if you can– this cake is better on the second day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Serve it alone or with lightly sweetened whipped cream. Serve to your loved ones as you watch your favorite (family-friendly) television program. Serve it to the poor. Serve it up to God, if that pleases you. Just please do something with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, as you’re serving it, should any of this cake fall onto your silk tie, your lovely table linen, or your nun’s habit, you can still keep on praying to St. Clare. She just so happens to double as the patron saint of laundry\u003cstrong>**\u003c/strong>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>* \u003c/strong>Sadly, there is no patron saint of ice cream. As yet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_72410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 560px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/10/Coping-Mechanism.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/10/Coping-Mechanism.jpg\" alt=\"Coping Mechanism: It's that special Holiday time of the year, which can only mean one thing: like many Americans, I need a drink.\" width=\"560\" class=\"size-full wp-image-72410\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">It's that special Holiday time of the year, which can only mean one thing: like many Americans, I need a drink.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I've seen Halloween candy on store shelves as early as August. Department stores piping Christmas music in September. If companies start merchandising Veteran's Day, I may begin to foam at the mouth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By Thanksgiving, I've just about had it, which is a pity since it happens to be one of my favorite holidays of the year. But now that it's riding tandem with Hanukkah, I very well may have to lock myself in the bathroom to have my quiet Holiday breakdown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I've found the ideal cocktail to take in there with me-- it's a take on The Filibuster cocktail by Erik Adkins of Oakland's Flora restaurant, but altered just enough to help me cope while appearing festive enough to look as though my Holiday spirits are high.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which they will be, thanks to the three ounces of booze per cocktail.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The Coping Mechanism\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Short of a magic wand to transport you elsewhere, this cocktail has everything you need to help cope with holiday get-togethers: plenty of liquor to take the edge off; maple syrup, which acts as a mild anti-depressant; egg white, which provides enough protein to help you forgo a plate of dry turducken; and lemon juice, which is excellent for softening dry elbows. And that little hint of nutmeg screams \"Thanksgiving\" just loud enough so you don't have to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the most satisfying part of this cocktail is in the making of it. It must be shaken to achieve the eggnog-esque foam. And quite vigorously. It's a marvelous way to vent one's aggression, seasonal or otherwise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>3 ounces of bourbon. Use a decent one. Especially if someone else is paying for it.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 ounce dark amber maple syrup. I like using Canadian because they seem as baffled over what to do with Thanksgiving as I do.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>The juice of half a lemon. Either Eureka or Meyer will do just fine.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>The white of one egg freshly liberated from a moderately healthy chicken. Turkey eggs are to be avoided. As are turkeys in general.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Freshly grated nutmeg\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Plenty of ice\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003col>\n\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>Into a large cocktail shaker, drop the ice. Pour over bourbon, maple syrup, lemon juice, and egg white. Close lid firmly.\n\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\nWrap a clean kitchen towel around the shaker to protect your hands from the cold. The wearing of mittens for this exercise is not recommended. Begin to agitate the contents of your shaker.\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>\u003cem>Step One:\u003c/em> Start the exercise as a pleasant dance routine-- a conga tempo works very nicely in this case.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cem>Step Two:\u003c/em> Increase the vigor of your shake, imagining that what you hold in your hands is not a mixology vessel, but rather the neck of your least favorite person in the room.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cem>Step Three:\u003c/em> Feel incredible remorse at your formerly violent thoughts towards said person, crumble to the floor in a fit of tears. Your body's own shaking will do the rest of the work for you.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cli>Remove the lid of your shaker, strain the frothy contents into a cocktail glass, garnish with a pinch of nutmeg, consume the drink in one to two large gulps, and tell everyone who's been staring at you for the past three minutes that you're just fine.\n\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Repeat as often as necessary.\u003c/li>\n\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_72410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 560px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/10/Coping-Mechanism.jpg\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/10/Coping-Mechanism.jpg\" alt=\"Coping Mechanism: It's that special Holiday time of the year, which can only mean one thing: like many Americans, I need a drink.\" width=\"560\" class=\"size-full wp-image-72410\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">It's that special Holiday time of the year, which can only mean one thing: like many Americans, I need a drink.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I've seen Halloween candy on store shelves as early as August. Department stores piping Christmas music in September. If companies start merchandising Veteran's Day, I may begin to foam at the mouth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By Thanksgiving, I've just about had it, which is a pity since it happens to be one of my favorite holidays of the year. But now that it's riding tandem with Hanukkah, I very well may have to lock myself in the bathroom to have my quiet Holiday breakdown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I've found the ideal cocktail to take in there with me-- it's a take on The Filibuster cocktail by Erik Adkins of Oakland's Flora restaurant, but altered just enough to help me cope while appearing festive enough to look as though my Holiday spirits are high.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which they will be, thanks to the three ounces of booze per cocktail.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The Coping Mechanism\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Short of a magic wand to transport you elsewhere, this cocktail has everything you need to help cope with holiday get-togethers: plenty of liquor to take the edge off; maple syrup, which acts as a mild anti-depressant; egg white, which provides enough protein to help you forgo a plate of dry turducken; and lemon juice, which is excellent for softening dry elbows. And that little hint of nutmeg screams \"Thanksgiving\" just loud enough so you don't have to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the most satisfying part of this cocktail is in the making of it. It must be shaken to achieve the eggnog-esque foam. And quite vigorously. It's a marvelous way to vent one's aggression, seasonal or otherwise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>3 ounces of bourbon. Use a decent one. Especially if someone else is paying for it.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 ounce dark amber maple syrup. I like using Canadian because they seem as baffled over what to do with Thanksgiving as I do.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>The juice of half a lemon. Either Eureka or Meyer will do just fine.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>The white of one egg freshly liberated from a moderately healthy chicken. Turkey eggs are to be avoided. As are turkeys in general.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Freshly grated nutmeg\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Plenty of ice\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003col>\n\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>Into a large cocktail shaker, drop the ice. Pour over bourbon, maple syrup, lemon juice, and egg white. Close lid firmly.\n\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\nWrap a clean kitchen towel around the shaker to protect your hands from the cold. The wearing of mittens for this exercise is not recommended. Begin to agitate the contents of your shaker.\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>\u003cem>Step One:\u003c/em> Start the exercise as a pleasant dance routine-- a conga tempo works very nicely in this case.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cem>Step Two:\u003c/em> Increase the vigor of your shake, imagining that what you hold in your hands is not a mixology vessel, but rather the neck of your least favorite person in the room.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>\u003cem>Step Three:\u003c/em> Feel incredible remorse at your formerly violent thoughts towards said person, crumble to the floor in a fit of tears. Your body's own shaking will do the rest of the work for you.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cli>Remove the lid of your shaker, strain the frothy contents into a cocktail glass, garnish with a pinch of nutmeg, consume the drink in one to two large gulps, and tell everyone who's been staring at you for the past three minutes that you're just fine.\n\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Repeat as often as necessary.\u003c/li>\n\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "When Life Gives You Melons…",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_70050\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 350px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melonade.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melonade.png\" alt=\"Melonade. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"350\" class=\"size-full wp-image-70050\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Melonade. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I am a highly selective reader. And listener. By this, I don’t mean to imply that I have discerning taste in literature and music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, I mean that my brain often prefers to process visual and aural information in ways it thinks I may find either more palatable or more entertaining than the original.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I once wondered aloud to a date about a billboard exhorting women to get Mmmmograms. He then proceeded to wonder aloud as to what in God’s name I was talking about. I pointed to the sign. “It says mammograms. Maaaa-moh-grams” he mouthed slowly and piteously. I looked again at the sign. He was right, of course and I knew that my lexical mirage was due in part to the fact that I was hungry. But still I much preferred my version of the message, which implied that women might visit their doctor for a necessary prescription of chocolate or caviar, rather than to have their breasts smashed and biopsied.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m fairly certain that was our last date, but I couldn’t tell you the fellow’s name if my life depended on it because my brain has apparently found that particular bit of information too unpleasant to process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In terms of mishearing things, I can tell you I’m extremely grateful that, as a child, I was never singled out to perform “The Star Spangled Banner” in front of a large stadium crowd because I am almost certain most Americans would be distressed to hear how their flag survived a cannonade of “tampons bursting in air” above it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve since learned the proper lyrics, but the original imagery will never, ever go away. And that’s fine by me, because I happen to think my version much more dramatic than the original. And so much more colorful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At work the other evening, one of our sous chefs engaged in a bit of verbal dyslexia as he was telling the waitstaff about dessert specials– announcing that we had a trio of chilled lemons available, should any of our guests feel like having a bit of fruit. By the time he corrected himself, the mouths of everyone in the room had already puckered at the thought of eating slices of cold Eurekas and Meyers. He’d meant to say melons: Sharlyn, Crenshaw, and one with a Spanish name I’d never come across before– Piel de Sapo. My not-at-all-fluent-in-Spanish brain translated it into something I could understand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_70049\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 350px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melon.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melon.png\" alt=\"Piel de Sapo exterior. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"350\" class=\"size-full wp-image-70049\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Piel de Sapo exterior. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Piel de \u003cem>Sappho\u003c/em>?” I asked, wanting to be certain I’d heard correctly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“No. Sapo. Sah-\u003cstrong>\u003cem>poh\u003c/em>\u003c/strong>,” he pronounced. “It means toad skin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One minute, I find out we have no cold lemons to sell to our guests and the next I’m told we’re offering them fruit suffering from \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypovitaminosis_A\">phrynoderma\u003c/a> instead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How much lovelier– and more appropriate– it would have been to serve up melon named for a Lesbian poet in an upscale Greek restaurant? Instead, we had nothing but cold-blooded amphibian. Knowing that the likelihood of horticulturists developing, growing, harvesting, and delivering the melon I wanted before service was minimal, I swallowed my disappointment and swore I’d turn this personal misfortune into something positive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because as the old adage says, “When life gives you melons, make melonade.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Or something like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_70051\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/piel-de-sapo-innards.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/piel-de-sapo-innards.png\" alt=\"Piel de Sapo innards. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"500\" class=\"size-full wp-image-70051\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Piel de Sapo innards. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Melonade\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>There are so many melons one could possibly squeeze for juice, but I am currently loving Piel de Sapo. We sometimes eat it like candy at the end of our work shift when it’s in season. It’s flavor is sweet and subtle and vaguely cantaloupe-like. Apparently, it is also referred to as Santa Claus melon, because it can be stored for so long that it can sometimes keep until Christmas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But I still prefer to call it Piel de Sappho because melons are so ripe for female anatomical comparison– undeniably mammarial when whole, unspeakably vaginal when pried open. The only thing I have trouble reconciling is the fact that this melon has a thick skin, which doesn’t quite jibe with the legend of this famed Lesbian* poet of antiquity hurling herself off a cliff when she found her love unrequited.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But at least it does imply a sweet and tender soul, which Piel de Sappho has in spades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003ch3>Ingredients:\u003c/h3>\n\u003cli>2 Piel de Sapo (call it whatever you wish. I do) melons. Very ripe and heavy in the hand.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup water\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>A handful of fresh mint, washed\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003ch3>Preparation:\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>1. Cleave your melons, scoop out the seeds with a spoon, remove the skins with a sharp knife, and save only the flesh, which you will then slice into pieces small enough to be shoved into the feed tube of your juicer (You really should have a juicer if you want to do this).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Pour the juice into a large container– you may get up to 3 pints of liquid from two melons. Cover and place in your refrigerator to chill and allow for the remaining melon solids to separate from the juice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. In the meantime, place 1 cup of water and 1 cup of sugar into a saucepan and heat over medium flame until the sugar is dissolved. Now take your clean mint, abuse it, and tear it to pieces, letting them fall as they may (somewhat carefully) into the sugar syrup. Stir and mash the mint all you like, cover and set aside to cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. Remove the juice from the refrigerator and strain it either through a fine-meshed sieve, cheese cloth, or both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. To serve, pour the juice into a large glass and taste. Is it sweet enough? Possibly, but add a teaspoon or two of the subtly-minted syrup and give it a stir. If you want to keep things simpler and do not want any extra sweetness, crumple up a few fresh leaves of mint and toss them into the juice, giving it all a good, hearty stir. If you want your beverage even more straightforward, do nothing and just drink the damned juice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Or send a batch to a friend– it will make for one delightful mmmm-o-gram indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you add lemon juice (or lime, for that matter) you will end up with a jumble of letters which will taste of little more than acid and murky water. If you add gin, it will taste terrible. The flavor of the juice is so subtle that one should do as little as possible to it. If your melons are hard and flavorless, the best thing to do with them is hurl them from the nearest cliff. And then learn \u003ca href=\"http://www.ehow.com/video_4398411_pick-ripe-melons.html\">how to properly select a ripe melon\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>* There is no known proof that Sappho a) was homosexual or b) that she ever hurled herself off a cliff. Very little about her is known beyond the fact that she was from the island of Lesbos, and was considered one of the greatest of the ancient Greek poets– no small feat in a time when women of good families were pretty much never allowed to leave the house.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_70050\" class=\"wp-caption alignleft\" style=\"max-width: 350px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melonade.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melonade.png\" alt=\"Melonade. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"350\" class=\"size-full wp-image-70050\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Melonade. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>I am a highly selective reader. And listener. By this, I don’t mean to imply that I have discerning taste in literature and music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Instead, I mean that my brain often prefers to process visual and aural information in ways it thinks I may find either more palatable or more entertaining than the original.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I once wondered aloud to a date about a billboard exhorting women to get Mmmmograms. He then proceeded to wonder aloud as to what in God’s name I was talking about. I pointed to the sign. “It says mammograms. Maaaa-moh-grams” he mouthed slowly and piteously. I looked again at the sign. He was right, of course and I knew that my lexical mirage was due in part to the fact that I was hungry. But still I much preferred my version of the message, which implied that women might visit their doctor for a necessary prescription of chocolate or caviar, rather than to have their breasts smashed and biopsied.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m fairly certain that was our last date, but I couldn’t tell you the fellow’s name if my life depended on it because my brain has apparently found that particular bit of information too unpleasant to process.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In terms of mishearing things, I can tell you I’m extremely grateful that, as a child, I was never singled out to perform “The Star Spangled Banner” in front of a large stadium crowd because I am almost certain most Americans would be distressed to hear how their flag survived a cannonade of “tampons bursting in air” above it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve since learned the proper lyrics, but the original imagery will never, ever go away. And that’s fine by me, because I happen to think my version much more dramatic than the original. And so much more colorful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At work the other evening, one of our sous chefs engaged in a bit of verbal dyslexia as he was telling the waitstaff about dessert specials– announcing that we had a trio of chilled lemons available, should any of our guests feel like having a bit of fruit. By the time he corrected himself, the mouths of everyone in the room had already puckered at the thought of eating slices of cold Eurekas and Meyers. He’d meant to say melons: Sharlyn, Crenshaw, and one with a Spanish name I’d never come across before– Piel de Sapo. My not-at-all-fluent-in-Spanish brain translated it into something I could understand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_70049\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 350px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melon.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/melon.png\" alt=\"Piel de Sapo exterior. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"350\" class=\"size-full wp-image-70049\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Piel de Sapo exterior. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Piel de \u003cem>Sappho\u003c/em>?” I asked, wanting to be certain I’d heard correctly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“No. Sapo. Sah-\u003cstrong>\u003cem>poh\u003c/em>\u003c/strong>,” he pronounced. “It means toad skin.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One minute, I find out we have no cold lemons to sell to our guests and the next I’m told we’re offering them fruit suffering from \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypovitaminosis_A\">phrynoderma\u003c/a> instead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How much lovelier– and more appropriate– it would have been to serve up melon named for a Lesbian poet in an upscale Greek restaurant? Instead, we had nothing but cold-blooded amphibian. Knowing that the likelihood of horticulturists developing, growing, harvesting, and delivering the melon I wanted before service was minimal, I swallowed my disappointment and swore I’d turn this personal misfortune into something positive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because as the old adage says, “When life gives you melons, make melonade.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Or something like that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_70051\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 500px\">\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/piel-de-sapo-innards.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/09/piel-de-sapo-innards.png\" alt=\"Piel de Sapo innards. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"500\" class=\"size-full wp-image-70051\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Piel de Sapo innards. Photo: Michael Procopio\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Melonade\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>There are so many melons one could possibly squeeze for juice, but I am currently loving Piel de Sapo. We sometimes eat it like candy at the end of our work shift when it’s in season. It’s flavor is sweet and subtle and vaguely cantaloupe-like. Apparently, it is also referred to as Santa Claus melon, because it can be stored for so long that it can sometimes keep until Christmas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But I still prefer to call it Piel de Sappho because melons are so ripe for female anatomical comparison– undeniably mammarial when whole, unspeakably vaginal when pried open. The only thing I have trouble reconciling is the fact that this melon has a thick skin, which doesn’t quite jibe with the legend of this famed Lesbian* poet of antiquity hurling herself off a cliff when she found her love unrequited.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But at least it does imply a sweet and tender soul, which Piel de Sappho has in spades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003ch3>Ingredients:\u003c/h3>\n\u003cli>2 Piel de Sapo (call it whatever you wish. I do) melons. Very ripe and heavy in the hand.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup water\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>A handful of fresh mint, washed\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003ch3>Preparation:\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>1. Cleave your melons, scoop out the seeds with a spoon, remove the skins with a sharp knife, and save only the flesh, which you will then slice into pieces small enough to be shoved into the feed tube of your juicer (You really should have a juicer if you want to do this).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. Pour the juice into a large container– you may get up to 3 pints of liquid from two melons. Cover and place in your refrigerator to chill and allow for the remaining melon solids to separate from the juice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>3. In the meantime, place 1 cup of water and 1 cup of sugar into a saucepan and heat over medium flame until the sugar is dissolved. Now take your clean mint, abuse it, and tear it to pieces, letting them fall as they may (somewhat carefully) into the sugar syrup. Stir and mash the mint all you like, cover and set aside to cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. Remove the juice from the refrigerator and strain it either through a fine-meshed sieve, cheese cloth, or both.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. To serve, pour the juice into a large glass and taste. Is it sweet enough? Possibly, but add a teaspoon or two of the subtly-minted syrup and give it a stir. If you want to keep things simpler and do not want any extra sweetness, crumple up a few fresh leaves of mint and toss them into the juice, giving it all a good, hearty stir. If you want your beverage even more straightforward, do nothing and just drink the damned juice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Or send a batch to a friend– it will make for one delightful mmmm-o-gram indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you add lemon juice (or lime, for that matter) you will end up with a jumble of letters which will taste of little more than acid and murky water. If you add gin, it will taste terrible. The flavor of the juice is so subtle that one should do as little as possible to it. If your melons are hard and flavorless, the best thing to do with them is hurl them from the nearest cliff. And then learn \u003ca href=\"http://www.ehow.com/video_4398411_pick-ripe-melons.html\">how to properly select a ripe melon\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>* There is no known proof that Sappho a) was homosexual or b) that she ever hurled herself off a cliff. Very little about her is known beyond the fact that she was from the island of Lesbos, and was considered one of the greatest of the ancient Greek poets– no small feat in a time when women of good families were pretty much never allowed to leave the house.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-in-Vase1.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-in-Vase1.png\" title=\"Horta in vase. Photo: Michael Procopio\" alt=\"Horta in vase. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"300\" class=\"alignleft size-full wp-image-66351\">\u003c/a>There’s an unassuming little dish we serve at our restaurant. It isn’t offered on our menu and yet everyone seems to know it’s there for them, should they need it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Greeks ask for it by its name: \u003cem>horta.\u003c/em> Non-Greeks ask for “a side of braised greens” because they either don’t know the proper term for it or do know but are afraid to sound out the first, faintly phlegmy syllable in public.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Calling \u003cem>horta\u003c/em> “braised greens” is an act of descriptive kindness and far more appetizing than calling them what they essentially are, which is boiled weeds. At our place of business, however, the dish is made from ingredients which are anything but weeds: the chard and mustard greens we use are deliberately cultivated and harvested by organic farmers. More esoteric greens like \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lamb%27s_Ear\">lamb’s ear\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amaranth\">amaranth\u003c/a> are added when the season allows, but they are grown from seed and carefully nurtured. There is nothing remotely wild about our bowls of \u003cem>horta\u003c/em>, but there are people who are clearly wild about them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Horta\u003c/em> fleshes out the plates of rib eye steak and Greek potatoes we serve; it pillows the heads of whole grilled fish; it nests under lamb shanks ordered by the orzo-averse. It is piled into bowls, hot and limp, with a bit of its cooking liquid and a little olive oil, then brought out to guests with half of a lemon tied up in cheese cloth and green ribbon like a church bonnet. It’s never the star of the meal, but it has a way of making its presence felt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Non-Greeks often order it because it sounds like a healthy addition to their meal. Young and middle-aged Greeks might order it out of habit, because it’s more or less always been a part of their dinners or, in some cases as one friend confided, “because it reminds me of my parents, who always kept an empty bag in the trunk of the car in case they saw greens growing by the side of the road. They’d kick us kids out of the car and make us pick f***ing weeds until the bag was full because they could never pass up free food.” I’d always thought his remark some sort of loving, familial joke about perceived Greek cheapness, which it was, but it was also a sort of testament to Greek resourcefulness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because there was a time when, if they did pass up a free meal, they might have died of starvation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever I bring a bowl of greens to older Greeks-- the ones from the Old Country who survived the war-- I always wonder if its presence at their table is practical or symbolic or both. Did they order \u003cem>horta\u003c/em> because they simply need the roughage at their age, or are they paying homage to the very thing that may have helped them beat hunger-- and the Nazis-- and come out of World War II alive? I’ve never dared to ask.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In April of 1941, Greece fell to the Axis armies of Germany, Italy, and Bulgaria. What followed was three and a half years of harsh occupation, economic destruction, murder, and starvation. The occupying forces requisitioned most of the available food stuffs for their armies, leaving the Greeks with very little upon which to survive. Livestock was slaughtered, farms placed under guard, transport trucks commandeered. The cities and islands like Mykonos and Chios, which depended upon shipments of food from the mainland in peaceful times, suffered the worst. During the winter of 1941-42, as many as 1,000 people a day were dying from hunger in Athens. It is estimated that more than 300,000 civilians died from malnutrition and starvation during the war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Lemons-squeezed.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Lemons-squeezed.png\" title=\"Lemons squeezed. Photo: Michael Procopio\" alt=\"Lemons squeezed. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"300\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-66352\">\u003c/a>Those fortunate enough to live in the countryside foraged for survival. Wild greens such as dandelions, wild sorrel, mustard, fennel, sow-thistle, sea-beans-- anything non-poisonous and edible-- were gathered, boiled, and eaten. Olive oil was unavailable to many, and lemons were often difficult to come by. Another friend recently recounted the story of how his father would sometimes rummage through garbage cans for spent lemon halves to help make the weeds more palatable. \u003cem>Horta\u003c/em> was often eaten alone, leaving nothing but the acrid taste of the greens on the tongue. Resistance fighters survived on little more than nettles and other wild herbs in the mountains of Northern Greece; their diet almost as bitter as the fight they waged against their occupiers-- a fight they eventually won.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I sometimes wonder how many people survived the Occupation (and the ensuing civil war) thanks to piles of boiled weeds. I don’t think there’s any accurate way to measure. What I do know is that my respect for them has grown over time, thanks to a better understanding of their special Greek culture or, as I like to think of it, horta culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1943 Greece, a bowl of greens might have sat alone on the dinner table. In the 2013, it’s a struggle to find a spot for them on a table already crowded with more food than anyone could possibly consume, but they always make a place for it. With all the other, more lively dishes to compete with, no one may actually eat the \u003cem>horta\u003c/em>, but it’s always comforting to know that it’s there, should anyone truly need it again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-cooked.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-cooked.png\" alt=\"Horta cooked. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"604\" height=\"606\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-66350\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Horta\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>You can use any type of greens you like to make \u003cem>horta\u003c/em>. Feel free to get creative, but don’t give it too much thought. Use what you have on hand. I prefer mine faintly bitter, which no one who knows me would find the least bit surprising.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The following recipe is just a guideline, since amounts are elastic and easily adjustable, just like the pants one should wear if one were having dinner at a Greek family’s house in non-famine times.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Serves two. Or one, if it is all one is eating.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1 bunch of dandelion greens\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 bunch of beet greens\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>About 4 cups of water\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Plenty of kosher salt\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 lemon, halved\u003c/li>\n\u003cli> Olive oil\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003col>\n\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>Add water to a large, deep pot. Add a scant handful of salt to the water and bring to a simmer.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Wash the greens until they are clean enough that you would wish to stick them in your mouth uncooked. Tear the leaf stalks in half, stalks and all (unless you’re using something with a particularly thick stem like kale) and drop them into the bubbling water. Stir the greens down until they are wilted and submerged. Cover and let simmer for about 10 minutes. Check for tenderness, paying attention to the doneness of the stalks. When they are properly supple, remove the greens from the water. Strain gently in a colander. Do not press excess moisture from them.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>To serve, place the horta in a serving bowl, squeeze a lemon half over them, drizzle with olive oil and taste. If needed, sprinkle with a little more salt. Place the second half of lemon in the bowl, off to the side. Wrapping them in cheese cloth and ribbon is a lovely touch, but wholly unnecessary.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Eat and be grateful that you have more food available to you in your refrigerator, should you need it.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "There’s an unassuming little dish we serve at our restaurant. The Greeks ask for it by its name: horta. Non-Greeks ask for “a side of braised greens” because they either don’t know the proper term for it or do know but are afraid to sound out the first, faintly phlegmy syllable in public.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-in-Vase1.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-in-Vase1.png\" title=\"Horta in vase. Photo: Michael Procopio\" alt=\"Horta in vase. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"300\" class=\"alignleft size-full wp-image-66351\">\u003c/a>There’s an unassuming little dish we serve at our restaurant. It isn’t offered on our menu and yet everyone seems to know it’s there for them, should they need it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Greeks ask for it by its name: \u003cem>horta.\u003c/em> Non-Greeks ask for “a side of braised greens” because they either don’t know the proper term for it or do know but are afraid to sound out the first, faintly phlegmy syllable in public.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Calling \u003cem>horta\u003c/em> “braised greens” is an act of descriptive kindness and far more appetizing than calling them what they essentially are, which is boiled weeds. At our place of business, however, the dish is made from ingredients which are anything but weeds: the chard and mustard greens we use are deliberately cultivated and harvested by organic farmers. More esoteric greens like \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lamb%27s_Ear\">lamb’s ear\u003c/a> and \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amaranth\">amaranth\u003c/a> are added when the season allows, but they are grown from seed and carefully nurtured. There is nothing remotely wild about our bowls of \u003cem>horta\u003c/em>, but there are people who are clearly wild about them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Horta\u003c/em> fleshes out the plates of rib eye steak and Greek potatoes we serve; it pillows the heads of whole grilled fish; it nests under lamb shanks ordered by the orzo-averse. It is piled into bowls, hot and limp, with a bit of its cooking liquid and a little olive oil, then brought out to guests with half of a lemon tied up in cheese cloth and green ribbon like a church bonnet. It’s never the star of the meal, but it has a way of making its presence felt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Non-Greeks often order it because it sounds like a healthy addition to their meal. Young and middle-aged Greeks might order it out of habit, because it’s more or less always been a part of their dinners or, in some cases as one friend confided, “because it reminds me of my parents, who always kept an empty bag in the trunk of the car in case they saw greens growing by the side of the road. They’d kick us kids out of the car and make us pick f***ing weeds until the bag was full because they could never pass up free food.” I’d always thought his remark some sort of loving, familial joke about perceived Greek cheapness, which it was, but it was also a sort of testament to Greek resourcefulness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Because there was a time when, if they did pass up a free meal, they might have died of starvation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever I bring a bowl of greens to older Greeks-- the ones from the Old Country who survived the war-- I always wonder if its presence at their table is practical or symbolic or both. Did they order \u003cem>horta\u003c/em> because they simply need the roughage at their age, or are they paying homage to the very thing that may have helped them beat hunger-- and the Nazis-- and come out of World War II alive? I’ve never dared to ask.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In April of 1941, Greece fell to the Axis armies of Germany, Italy, and Bulgaria. What followed was three and a half years of harsh occupation, economic destruction, murder, and starvation. The occupying forces requisitioned most of the available food stuffs for their armies, leaving the Greeks with very little upon which to survive. Livestock was slaughtered, farms placed under guard, transport trucks commandeered. The cities and islands like Mykonos and Chios, which depended upon shipments of food from the mainland in peaceful times, suffered the worst. During the winter of 1941-42, as many as 1,000 people a day were dying from hunger in Athens. It is estimated that more than 300,000 civilians died from malnutrition and starvation during the war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Lemons-squeezed.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Lemons-squeezed.png\" title=\"Lemons squeezed. Photo: Michael Procopio\" alt=\"Lemons squeezed. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"300\" class=\"alignright size-full wp-image-66352\">\u003c/a>Those fortunate enough to live in the countryside foraged for survival. Wild greens such as dandelions, wild sorrel, mustard, fennel, sow-thistle, sea-beans-- anything non-poisonous and edible-- were gathered, boiled, and eaten. Olive oil was unavailable to many, and lemons were often difficult to come by. Another friend recently recounted the story of how his father would sometimes rummage through garbage cans for spent lemon halves to help make the weeds more palatable. \u003cem>Horta\u003c/em> was often eaten alone, leaving nothing but the acrid taste of the greens on the tongue. Resistance fighters survived on little more than nettles and other wild herbs in the mountains of Northern Greece; their diet almost as bitter as the fight they waged against their occupiers-- a fight they eventually won.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I sometimes wonder how many people survived the Occupation (and the ensuing civil war) thanks to piles of boiled weeds. I don’t think there’s any accurate way to measure. What I do know is that my respect for them has grown over time, thanks to a better understanding of their special Greek culture or, as I like to think of it, horta culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1943 Greece, a bowl of greens might have sat alone on the dinner table. In the 2013, it’s a struggle to find a spot for them on a table already crowded with more food than anyone could possibly consume, but they always make a place for it. With all the other, more lively dishes to compete with, no one may actually eat the \u003cem>horta\u003c/em>, but it’s always comforting to know that it’s there, should anyone truly need it again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-cooked.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/07/Horta-cooked.png\" alt=\"Horta cooked. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"604\" height=\"606\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-66350\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Horta\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>You can use any type of greens you like to make \u003cem>horta\u003c/em>. Feel free to get creative, but don’t give it too much thought. Use what you have on hand. I prefer mine faintly bitter, which no one who knows me would find the least bit surprising.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The following recipe is just a guideline, since amounts are elastic and easily adjustable, just like the pants one should wear if one were having dinner at a Greek family’s house in non-famine times.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Serves two. Or one, if it is all one is eating.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003cbr>\n\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1 bunch of dandelion greens\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 bunch of beet greens\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>About 4 cups of water\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Plenty of kosher salt\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 lemon, halved\u003c/li>\n\u003cli> Olive oil\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003col>\n\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>Add water to a large, deep pot. Add a scant handful of salt to the water and bring to a simmer.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Wash the greens until they are clean enough that you would wish to stick them in your mouth uncooked. Tear the leaf stalks in half, stalks and all (unless you’re using something with a particularly thick stem like kale) and drop them into the bubbling water. Stir the greens down until they are wilted and submerged. Cover and let simmer for about 10 minutes. Check for tenderness, paying attention to the doneness of the stalks. When they are properly supple, remove the greens from the water. Strain gently in a colander. Do not press excess moisture from them.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>To serve, place the horta in a serving bowl, squeeze a lemon half over them, drizzle with olive oil and taste. If needed, sprinkle with a little more salt. Place the second half of lemon in the bowl, off to the side. Wrapping them in cheese cloth and ribbon is a lovely touch, but wholly unnecessary.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Eat and be grateful that you have more food available to you in your refrigerator, should you need it.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "Junk Food Porn: Cruising for Beefaroni",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/06/Chef-Boyardee-Cans.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/06/Chef-Boyardee-Cans.png\" alt=\"Chef Boyardee Cans\" width=\"300\" class=\"alignleft size-full wp-image-63878\">\u003c/a>I popped into my corner store around noon to pick up some hot sauce in order to add a little zing to my falafel wrap, but as I stood in the back aisle trying to decide between the Sriracha and Tabasco and Cholula, the desire for an altogether different kind of heat began to overtake me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was being cruised by an older gentleman. And he was staring at my crotch. Granted, he had no choice in the matter because he was sitting on the middle shelf, plastered on the face of a can, directly beneath the spicy condiments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He was a tiny, sturdy-looking mustachioed fellow with white hair that peeked out from under his toque. The stylish red kerchief he wore around his thick neck intensified the warm, pink flush of his cheeks. My own turned crimson at his gaze, which remained fixed upon my loins. I knelt down in front of him. His devilish smile told me he was looking for a bit of fun. The subtly stiff cock of his eyebrow said, \"Well, how about it?\" I like that in a man.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I found his offer strangely irresistible. He was offering me something I never before knew I wanted, but now did so more than anything. Even more than a falafel wrap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I had a half hour to kill, I was game for a little lunchtime action, and I've always had a fetish for little Italian men who know how to cook, so I took him up on his offer. But I knew if wanted to taste his Big Beefaroni, I was going to have to pay for it. $1.79 was the price he quoted me off the top of his head. I felt a certain shame wondering what my Sicilian grandmother would think of the sin I was about to commit, and that made the prospect all the more titillating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I loitered in the back of the store, quietly fondling the can until the coast was clear, then walked up to the checkout as casually as possible and put my money on counter. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"It's for research,\" I told the man at the cash register, though I don't think he believed me. \"You want me to put that in a plain brown bag for you?\" he asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Nope. I'm good,\" I answered, trying to pretend away my embarrassment. I shoved the can deep into the right pocket of my cargo shorts and left the store. It rubbed hard against my thigh as I walked. An old Russian woman eyed my suspicious bulge with a look that hovered somewhere between amazement and horror as I waited at the crosswalk, but I didn't care. I had only one thing on my mind and I was nearly exploding with the desire to get home and whip it out of my pants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Safely inside my apartment, I pulled the can out of my shorts and placed it on the kitchen counter. I poured myself a drink to relax. I find a thick finger of whiskey always helps with social lubrication.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"So...\" I said, attempting flirty small talk,\" Boyardee. That's an Italian name, isn't it?\" But he didn't answer. The man was all business, I thought-- as cold and hard as the granite top on which he was perched. I knew I needed to get him hot. And fast, or this nooner was going nowhere. I knocked back my drink and made my move.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I picked him up off the counter with a firm grasp in one hand as I seductively traced the outline of his head with the other. \"Got your nose!\" I said to him, playfully. Gently, I pulled off his top. He barely resisted, making little wet-sounding noises as I peeled it away from his body. I stuck my index finger in his can. It was cool and moist. I slowly pulled it out and placed the dripping finger to my lips. It was salty. It tasted of him. It also tasted of tomatoes and aluminum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once he was opened up, I poured him into a sauce pan and lowered him onto the stove. I ignited the flame under the pan, but it was he who had ignited the one in my nether regions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Are you hot yet? 'Cause I am. Very, \u003cem>very\u003c/em> hot,\" I moaned with a long, breathy \"h\" as though I were unfogging a mirror, but in a sexy way. And I was hot. I was standing too close to the stove. I pulled off my hoodie and threw it to the ground. I plunged three fingers into the pan to savor his warming essence, put them under my nose, and sniffed them. The scent of potassium chloride and enzyme-modified cheese product made me shudder. I placed those beef-flecked fingers in my mouth and sucked them dry. He was primed and ready.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"I could just eat you with a spoon,\" I whispered. And then I made a sexy growling noise, which emanated from deep inside of my body. I was hungry. Hungry for him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I tried to inhale him, but he was too much Beefaroni for me to handle. I stuffed as much as I could into my cheeks like a squirrel in heat. It was then that I caught a good look at myself in the reflection from the glass of the framed, vintage Coffee Arabica poster that hangs over my stove-- all puffy-faced with a chin covered in goo, like a drooling Brando in his later years. Suddenly, I felt like a whore, which was odd, since I was the one paying for this guy's services. I discovered at that moment-- standing there with a mouthful of limp noodle and hot, tomato-y effluence-- that one can indeed put a price on shame. And my particular price was $1.79. I spit what I could into the sink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I felt he'd somehow tricked me into taking him home. I was hungry and feeling lonely at lunchtime. He promised to fill my needs and my stomach. He also promised me 7 vitamins & minerals and 7 grams of protein per serving. But I was left holding the can, one very unsatisfied customer indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"What are you looking at?\" I asked him as I wiped my chin with a clean towel. His stare, which seemed so sexy to me not 15 minutes earlier, now appeared one o mockery and smug self-satisfaction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"I paid for you, didn't I?\" I cried, \"You got want you wanted from me, didn't you? So why don't you just... just go!\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he wouldn't move an inch. He just kept on looking at me with those squinty eyes. He didn't even have the decency to turn his back as I dried my tears. Or to leave.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I threw him out-- out the back door and down the garbage chute. As a San Franciscan, it was hard for me not to place him in the recycling bin, which is where he probably belonged, but I couldn't bear the thought of him ever coming back. Even in another form. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I calmed myself. It was over. I held my chin up and took a few deep breaths before I walked back into the kitchen. I knew I'd have to face the falafel wrap I'd left on the counter, which was forced to witness my afternoon of shame. I prayed it didn't judge me too harshly for forgetting to buy the hot sauce.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "I popped into my corner store around noon to pick up some hot sauce in order to add a little zing to my falafel wrap, but as I stood in the back aisle trying to decide between the Sriracha and Tabasco and Cholula, the desire for an altogether different kind of heat began to overtake me.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I loitered in the back of the store, quietly fondling the can until the coast was clear, then walked up to the checkout as casually as possible and put my money on counter. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"It's for research,\" I told the man at the cash register, though I don't think he believed me. \"You want me to put that in a plain brown bag for you?\" he asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Nope. I'm good,\" I answered, trying to pretend away my embarrassment. I shoved the can deep into the right pocket of my cargo shorts and left the store. It rubbed hard against my thigh as I walked. An old Russian woman eyed my suspicious bulge with a look that hovered somewhere between amazement and horror as I waited at the crosswalk, but I didn't care. I had only one thing on my mind and I was nearly exploding with the desire to get home and whip it out of my pants.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Safely inside my apartment, I pulled the can out of my shorts and placed it on the kitchen counter. I poured myself a drink to relax. I find a thick finger of whiskey always helps with social lubrication.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"So...\" I said, attempting flirty small talk,\" Boyardee. That's an Italian name, isn't it?\" But he didn't answer. The man was all business, I thought-- as cold and hard as the granite top on which he was perched. I knew I needed to get him hot. And fast, or this nooner was going nowhere. I knocked back my drink and made my move.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I picked him up off the counter with a firm grasp in one hand as I seductively traced the outline of his head with the other. \"Got your nose!\" I said to him, playfully. Gently, I pulled off his top. He barely resisted, making little wet-sounding noises as I peeled it away from his body. I stuck my index finger in his can. It was cool and moist. I slowly pulled it out and placed the dripping finger to my lips. It was salty. It tasted of him. It also tasted of tomatoes and aluminum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once he was opened up, I poured him into a sauce pan and lowered him onto the stove. I ignited the flame under the pan, but it was he who had ignited the one in my nether regions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"Are you hot yet? 'Cause I am. Very, \u003cem>very\u003c/em> hot,\" I moaned with a long, breathy \"h\" as though I were unfogging a mirror, but in a sexy way. And I was hot. I was standing too close to the stove. I pulled off my hoodie and threw it to the ground. I plunged three fingers into the pan to savor his warming essence, put them under my nose, and sniffed them. The scent of potassium chloride and enzyme-modified cheese product made me shudder. I placed those beef-flecked fingers in my mouth and sucked them dry. He was primed and ready.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"I could just eat you with a spoon,\" I whispered. And then I made a sexy growling noise, which emanated from deep inside of my body. I was hungry. Hungry for him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I tried to inhale him, but he was too much Beefaroni for me to handle. I stuffed as much as I could into my cheeks like a squirrel in heat. It was then that I caught a good look at myself in the reflection from the glass of the framed, vintage Coffee Arabica poster that hangs over my stove-- all puffy-faced with a chin covered in goo, like a drooling Brando in his later years. Suddenly, I felt like a whore, which was odd, since I was the one paying for this guy's services. I discovered at that moment-- standing there with a mouthful of limp noodle and hot, tomato-y effluence-- that one can indeed put a price on shame. And my particular price was $1.79. I spit what I could into the sink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I felt he'd somehow tricked me into taking him home. I was hungry and feeling lonely at lunchtime. He promised to fill my needs and my stomach. He also promised me 7 vitamins & minerals and 7 grams of protein per serving. But I was left holding the can, one very unsatisfied customer indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"What are you looking at?\" I asked him as I wiped my chin with a clean towel. His stare, which seemed so sexy to me not 15 minutes earlier, now appeared one o mockery and smug self-satisfaction.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\"I paid for you, didn't I?\" I cried, \"You got want you wanted from me, didn't you? So why don't you just... just go!\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But he wouldn't move an inch. He just kept on looking at me with those squinty eyes. He didn't even have the decency to turn his back as I dried my tears. Or to leave.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So I threw him out-- out the back door and down the garbage chute. As a San Franciscan, it was hard for me not to place him in the recycling bin, which is where he probably belonged, but I couldn't bear the thought of him ever coming back. Even in another form. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I calmed myself. It was over. I held my chin up and took a few deep breaths before I walked back into the kitchen. I knew I'd have to face the falafel wrap I'd left on the counter, which was forced to witness my afternoon of shame. I prayed it didn't judge me too harshly for forgetting to buy the hot sauce.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "KY Jelly Is My New Jam",
"title": "KY Jelly Is My New Jam",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/KY-Jelly.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/KY-Jelly-287x290.png\" alt=\"KY Jelly. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"287\" height=\"290\" class=\"alignleft size-medium wp-image-59547\">\u003c/a>If it’s sweet and smearable, you will find it spooned upon my morning toast. Jams, jellies, marmalades, conserves, confitures– I love them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve had fig paste from Morocco, cloudberry jam from Newfoundland, and pearl jam from Seattle. If there is a place on earth whose fruit spread I have not sampled, it is only a matter of time before I do. So you can imagine my delight when I wandered into Walgreen’s and made rather unexpected discovery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was looking for shaving cream, but found myself lost in the feminine hygiene aisle when I saw it. Wedged between boxes of home pregnancy tests and Summer’s Eve, I came across a spread I never knew existed: Kentucky jelly. I was amused by its placement in the store, assuming perhaps that it was being marketed to pregnant women. Or at least very clean ones. If it was delicious enough to be recommended by gynecologists, it was good enough for me. I snatched up a box and headed to the checkout line, forgetting all about the shaving cream.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I returned home, I pulled the jelly out of its box after I put my bread slices in the oven to do their thing. The pale blue container I held in my hand gave little away as to what flavors lay hidden inside. I did, however, admire the packaging: a squeezeable tube. So convenient for spreading upon one’s toast, I thought.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unscrewing the plastic cap to remove the tamper-proof seal, I replaced it and squirted a generous amount of the jelly onto my hot toast. I was surprised by the clearness of it but, undeterred, I bit in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was not what I imagined Kentucky to taste like. I was disappointed by its glycerin flavor and viscous mouthfeel. \u003cstrong>And it was not organic.\u003c/strong> My friends from there are colorful and interesting, so why wasn’t the official jelly of The Bluegrass State the same? I tried to imagine Kat and Jackie spreading it on their muffins in the morning. And then I immediately tried to imagine something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>KY jelly does a great disservice to The Great Commonwealth, no matter what gynecologists may think of it. When I think of Kentucky, I think of bourbon, racehorses, summer heat, bourbon, cherries, and bourbon. I think of good old-fashioned traditions upheld like Derby Day and the making of \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burgoo\">burgoo\u003c/a> and hot brown. And though I may think of \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uiVuvzWThfU\">Loretta Lynn using Crisco\u003c/a> in her pie, I never, ever think of her using KY Jelly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Old-Fashioned-Kentucky-Jelly.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Old-Fashioned-Kentucky-Jelly.png\" alt=\"Old-Fashioned Kentucky Jelly. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"611\" height=\"611\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-59548\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Old Fashioned Kentucky Jelly\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>I decided to make my own Kentucky jelly, the old-fashioned way, just to take the bad taste out of my mouth. And when I say “old-fashioned,” I mean like the cocktail of the same name. Though my friends from The Hemp State might disagree, this recipe is how I imagine their signature spread should be:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sticky, sweet, a whiff of bourbon, and the gentle kick of a thoroughbred thrown in for good measure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Makes two 8 ounce jars of KY jelly.\u003c/strong> Keep one for yourself and give the other to someone you’d like to see use it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1/2 cups Kentucky bourbon\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 1/2 cups black cherry juice (Knudsen makes a great one using cherries and nothing else, which is ideal.)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup of sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>3 or 4 good dashes of orange bitters\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>The peel of 1/2 of an orange (large pieces are best, because you’ll want easy removal.)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon Aleppo pepper (or chile flakes, if you want a little extra heat.)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon calcium water (powder comes with your packet of Pomona Universal Pectin)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>3/4 teaspoon of powdered Pomona’s Universal Pectin mixed with:\u003cbr>\n 1 teaspoon of granulated sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003col>\n\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cp> \t\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Pouring-Jelly.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Pouring-Jelly-190x190.png\" alt=\"Pouring Kentucky Jelly. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"190\" height=\"190\" class=\"alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-59549\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cli>In a medium-sized, heavy-bottomed pot, add bourbon, cherry juice, orange peel, bitters, sugar, lemon juice, and pepper flakes. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat and let stand for 30 minutes to allow the flavors to mingle properly.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Remove orange peel. Add calcium water and stir into your liquid. Add the sugar/pectin mixture, bring to a boil, and stir, stir, stir to prevent the pectin from clumping. To see if the concoction has gelled to you liking, place a small spoonful onto a chilled plate and see how it sets up when cool. Too firm? Add a little more juice and try again. Too runny? Add a little more pectin and see what happens.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Pour hot jelly in to clean, sterilized jars and process according to instructions from the \u003ca href=\"http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can_home.html\">National Center for Home Food Preservation\u003c/a>.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>To serve: spread it on toast, on crackers, on cheese, on any food stuff that seems in need of lubrication.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "I decided to make my own Kentucky jelly, the old-fashioned way, just to take the bad taste out of my mouth. And when I say “old-fashioned,” I mean like the cocktail of the same name. ",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/KY-Jelly.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/KY-Jelly-287x290.png\" alt=\"KY Jelly. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"287\" height=\"290\" class=\"alignleft size-medium wp-image-59547\">\u003c/a>If it’s sweet and smearable, you will find it spooned upon my morning toast. Jams, jellies, marmalades, conserves, confitures– I love them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’ve had fig paste from Morocco, cloudberry jam from Newfoundland, and pearl jam from Seattle. If there is a place on earth whose fruit spread I have not sampled, it is only a matter of time before I do. So you can imagine my delight when I wandered into Walgreen’s and made rather unexpected discovery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I was looking for shaving cream, but found myself lost in the feminine hygiene aisle when I saw it. Wedged between boxes of home pregnancy tests and Summer’s Eve, I came across a spread I never knew existed: Kentucky jelly. I was amused by its placement in the store, assuming perhaps that it was being marketed to pregnant women. Or at least very clean ones. If it was delicious enough to be recommended by gynecologists, it was good enough for me. I snatched up a box and headed to the checkout line, forgetting all about the shaving cream.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I returned home, I pulled the jelly out of its box after I put my bread slices in the oven to do their thing. The pale blue container I held in my hand gave little away as to what flavors lay hidden inside. I did, however, admire the packaging: a squeezeable tube. So convenient for spreading upon one’s toast, I thought.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unscrewing the plastic cap to remove the tamper-proof seal, I replaced it and squirted a generous amount of the jelly onto my hot toast. I was surprised by the clearness of it but, undeterred, I bit in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was not what I imagined Kentucky to taste like. I was disappointed by its glycerin flavor and viscous mouthfeel. \u003cstrong>And it was not organic.\u003c/strong> My friends from there are colorful and interesting, so why wasn’t the official jelly of The Bluegrass State the same? I tried to imagine Kat and Jackie spreading it on their muffins in the morning. And then I immediately tried to imagine something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>KY jelly does a great disservice to The Great Commonwealth, no matter what gynecologists may think of it. When I think of Kentucky, I think of bourbon, racehorses, summer heat, bourbon, cherries, and bourbon. I think of good old-fashioned traditions upheld like Derby Day and the making of \u003ca href=\"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burgoo\">burgoo\u003c/a> and hot brown. And though I may think of \u003ca href=\"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uiVuvzWThfU\">Loretta Lynn using Crisco\u003c/a> in her pie, I never, ever think of her using KY Jelly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Old-Fashioned-Kentucky-Jelly.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Old-Fashioned-Kentucky-Jelly.png\" alt=\"Old-Fashioned Kentucky Jelly. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"611\" height=\"611\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-59548\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Old Fashioned Kentucky Jelly\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>I decided to make my own Kentucky jelly, the old-fashioned way, just to take the bad taste out of my mouth. And when I say “old-fashioned,” I mean like the cocktail of the same name. Though my friends from The Hemp State might disagree, this recipe is how I imagine their signature spread should be:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sticky, sweet, a whiff of bourbon, and the gentle kick of a thoroughbred thrown in for good measure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Makes two 8 ounce jars of KY jelly.\u003c/strong> Keep one for yourself and give the other to someone you’d like to see use it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>1/2 cups Kentucky bourbon\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 1/2 cups black cherry juice (Knudsen makes a great one using cherries and nothing else, which is ideal.)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup of sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>3 or 4 good dashes of orange bitters\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>The peel of 1/2 of an orange (large pieces are best, because you’ll want easy removal.)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon Aleppo pepper (or chile flakes, if you want a little extra heat.)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 teaspoon calcium water (powder comes with your packet of Pomona Universal Pectin)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>3/4 teaspoon of powdered Pomona’s Universal Pectin mixed with:\u003cbr>\n 1 teaspoon of granulated sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003col>\n\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cp> \t\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Pouring-Jelly.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/04/Pouring-Jelly-190x190.png\" alt=\"Pouring Kentucky Jelly. Photo: Michael Procopio\" width=\"190\" height=\"190\" class=\"alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-59549\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cli>In a medium-sized, heavy-bottomed pot, add bourbon, cherry juice, orange peel, bitters, sugar, lemon juice, and pepper flakes. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat and let stand for 30 minutes to allow the flavors to mingle properly.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Remove orange peel. Add calcium water and stir into your liquid. Add the sugar/pectin mixture, bring to a boil, and stir, stir, stir to prevent the pectin from clumping. To see if the concoction has gelled to you liking, place a small spoonful onto a chilled plate and see how it sets up when cool. Too firm? Add a little more juice and try again. Too runny? Add a little more pectin and see what happens.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Pour hot jelly in to clean, sterilized jars and process according to instructions from the \u003ca href=\"http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can_home.html\">National Center for Home Food Preservation\u003c/a>.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>To serve: spread it on toast, on crackers, on cheese, on any food stuff that seems in need of lubrication.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "The Corn Dogs of Easter",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/corndog-frying.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/corndog-frying-290x290.png\" alt=\"corndog frying\" width=\"290\" height=\"290\" class=\"alignleft size-medium wp-image-59035\">\u003c/a>When I was a boy, I took everything the Catholic church told me literally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After my first visit to the confessional, I was absolved of my transgressions by Father O’Connor and told that, as soon as I said my ten Hail Marys, my soul would be light and unburdened by the weight of sin. When I had finished my last “Amen,\" I ran outside to the church’s tetherball court and began jumping around the blacktop, convinced that with each leap, I rose higher in the air and therefore rose closer to God. It was a very good feeling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I took Holy Communion, I understood that, thanks to the miracle of Transubstantiation, I was accepting an actual piece of Christ’s body onto the tip of my tongue. But which piece? I didn’t dare ask the priest who was doling out the goods, so I’d just return to my pew and sit next to my mother with the Eucharist softening and balancing on my tongue. I was afraid to chew the wafer, thinking it would cause Jesus unnecessary pain, so I just let it rest there until it dissolved, wondering if I could tell from what part of His body it came. Was it from His thigh or His breast? Was it light meat or dark? If I were to have judged based solely on flavor, I would have come to the conclusion that I was eating a part of His sandal every time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And yet I always found myself wanting to go back for seconds. We never ate before morning Mass, so I was always extremely hungry. When everyone else was praying for the souls of the recently departed, I was praying for breakfast. Ingesting the communion wafer may have brought me closer to Christ, but it also whetted my appetite as it found its way into my stomach and got my gastric juices churning. It was a uniquely Catholic torture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Easter Mass, which felt like the longest of the year, I found this torture even more grueling, which was appropriate given to constant reminder of Christ’s suffering and dying for our sins. I identified with Him because I was suffering and dying, too. Of hunger. I’d look at the altar and think the priests could have done a much better job at feeding their congregation if they had set it up as a buffet. It was already set with silver and a nice cloth, so they didn’t have far to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I never thought as to what they might serve at the buffet, but I was confident that whatever it was, they’d never run out of anything because Jesus would never let that kind of thing happen. Especially at one of his own parties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the bible told me so. And quite literally, for that matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Crucifixion Corn Dogs\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Crucifix-corndog.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Crucifix-corndog.png\" alt=\"Crucifix Corndog\" width=\"602\" height=\"605\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-59036\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If I were a seven year-old today and attending Easter mass, I know what I would like to see served at an Easter Service buffet. Naturally, everything would conform to a Jesus/Easter theme: Hot cross buns, hollow chocolate bunnies, and cereal in the shape of crosses and halos on one end; a deacon with a big knife to carve up the Lamb of God on the other. Or the Ham of God, since I wasn’t a fan of eating lamb back then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in the middle of everything would be a treat which would really bring home the drama of Christ’s Passion in edible form. Something delicious and filling, but would still remind us of Christ’s suffering with each and every mouthful: corn dogs on a cross.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They’re more substantial than a communion wafer, and more delicious, too. And, given the nature of hot dogs, you still won’t be certain from which part of the body they came.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the Catholic church suffering a loss in attendance, even at Easter time, drastic measures should be taken to reverse the decline. Ordaining women, getting rid of the celibacy rule, and welcoming gay, lesbian, and transgendered would be nice, but I don’t see these things happening any time soon, so they might as well throw a nice, big buffet and see what happens. Or they might come up with some other novel approaches. All they have to do is ask the seven year-olds* of their diocese. After all, Jesus loves the little children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This recipe is adapted from Saveur magazine’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/State-Fair-Corn-Dogs\">State Fair\u003c/a> recipe, which was, of course, gotten from poor people who work state fairs, who got it from some other people, who most likely got it from wheat and corn crops. And cows. And mustard companies. The using-a-chopstick-as-a-handle trick I learned from \u003ca href=\"http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2011/10/classic-corn-dogs-and-cheese-on-a-stick/\">Ree Drummond’s\u003c/a> website. She most likely learned this trick from Beatrice Lillie’s character Mrs. Meers in Thoroughly Modern Millie. And \u003ca href=\"http://mattbites.com/\">Matt Armendariz\u003c/a> will very likely be including this recipe in his upcoming Holidays On A Stick! cookbook (publishing date undetermined).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If the idea of squirting a mustard Jesus onto your corn dog makes you uncomfortable, you can still stay in theme by creating a condiment version of The Penitent Thief. Or The Impenitent one, if that is more your style.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Serves 8.\u003c/strong> To serve multitudes, pray over this recipe’s ingredients for as long as needed if you are perfect and without sin. For everyone else, multiply the recipe by hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>2 cups all-purpose flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 1/3 cup yellow cornmeal\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>4 tablespoons sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 tablespoons baking powder\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon baking soda\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon dry mustard\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 teaspoons kosher salt\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 3/4 cups whole milk\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup buttermilk\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 eggs, lightly flogged\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>16 6″ hot dogs. I have chosen to use chicken dogs, which is more than likely still offensive to practicing Catholics on Good Friday, but probably less so than beef franks.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Vegetable oil, for frying\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>4 pairs of wooden take-out chopsticks to serve as posts, 8 coffee stirrers to serve as crossbeams.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Yellow mustard and (non-yellow) catsup for garnish\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, dry mustard, white pepper, and salt. In a separate bowl, combine milk, buttermilk, and egg until the trinity becomes a confusing, inseparable muddle. Add the liquid to the dry ingredients until all becomes binding and Universal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. In a wide, deep pan or Dutch oven (this requires more elbow room than an ordinary, non-Catholic corn dog recipe), pour oil to a depth of 2″ and warm over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Wiener-Demo.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Wiener-Demo-290x290.png\" alt=\"Weiner demo\" width=\"290\" height=\"290\" class=\"alignright size-medium wp-image-59038\">\u003c/a>3. As the oil is heating, make the hot dog crucifixes. To assemble, cut about 2″ off the narrow part of each chop stick which, under ordinary circumstances, be the end one would place in one’s mouth. Discard the circumcised tips. Gently insert the chopstick into one end of a hot dog, until all that is left visible is a 2″ handle. Cut a second hot dog in thirds, discarding/sacrificing the center piece. These will be the arms of the cross. To attach, cut a coffee stirrer to the appropriate length and slide through the center of the top half of the whole wiener, then slide on the remaining 2/3 of cut wiener. (See photo**).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. Dip one crucifix into the batter, coating well. The batter should be firm and giving, but not run. If it is too dry, add a little milk. Too runny, add a little more flour. The batter is as forgiving as He is. Gently shake off any excess and lay directly into the pot of hot oil. Fry on one side for about 1 1/2 minutes. Using tongs, gently turn its other cheek and fry for the same amount of time. On the third minute, let it rise from the oil and rest on a shroud of paper towels to cool. Repeat until all crucifixes are battered and fried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. To serve, decorate with mustard. You do not have to put the image of Christ on every corn dog. If you have any martyrs in your family, feel free to squirt on their likeness and share it with them to show that you know how much they themselves have suffered, which will give them great comfort. Just please remind them not to bite into the coffee stirrer crossbeam, which most decidedly will not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>* Or eight year-olds. Luis Antonio de Bourbon was ordained cardinal on 19 December, 1735. He was eight years old\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>** Note: This is a photo of a practice-run crucifixion dog in which I discovered that coffee stirrers are excellent for sidebeam support, but terrible for for use as handles, which is why one should use chopsticks.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/corndog-frying.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/corndog-frying-290x290.png\" alt=\"corndog frying\" width=\"290\" height=\"290\" class=\"alignleft size-medium wp-image-59035\">\u003c/a>When I was a boy, I took everything the Catholic church told me literally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After my first visit to the confessional, I was absolved of my transgressions by Father O’Connor and told that, as soon as I said my ten Hail Marys, my soul would be light and unburdened by the weight of sin. When I had finished my last “Amen,\" I ran outside to the church’s tetherball court and began jumping around the blacktop, convinced that with each leap, I rose higher in the air and therefore rose closer to God. It was a very good feeling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I took Holy Communion, I understood that, thanks to the miracle of Transubstantiation, I was accepting an actual piece of Christ’s body onto the tip of my tongue. But which piece? I didn’t dare ask the priest who was doling out the goods, so I’d just return to my pew and sit next to my mother with the Eucharist softening and balancing on my tongue. I was afraid to chew the wafer, thinking it would cause Jesus unnecessary pain, so I just let it rest there until it dissolved, wondering if I could tell from what part of His body it came. Was it from His thigh or His breast? Was it light meat or dark? If I were to have judged based solely on flavor, I would have come to the conclusion that I was eating a part of His sandal every time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And yet I always found myself wanting to go back for seconds. We never ate before morning Mass, so I was always extremely hungry. When everyone else was praying for the souls of the recently departed, I was praying for breakfast. Ingesting the communion wafer may have brought me closer to Christ, but it also whetted my appetite as it found its way into my stomach and got my gastric juices churning. It was a uniquely Catholic torture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Easter Mass, which felt like the longest of the year, I found this torture even more grueling, which was appropriate given to constant reminder of Christ’s suffering and dying for our sins. I identified with Him because I was suffering and dying, too. Of hunger. I’d look at the altar and think the priests could have done a much better job at feeding their congregation if they had set it up as a buffet. It was already set with silver and a nice cloth, so they didn’t have far to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I never thought as to what they might serve at the buffet, but I was confident that whatever it was, they’d never run out of anything because Jesus would never let that kind of thing happen. Especially at one of his own parties.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the bible told me so. And quite literally, for that matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Crucifixion Corn Dogs\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Crucifix-corndog.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Crucifix-corndog.png\" alt=\"Crucifix Corndog\" width=\"602\" height=\"605\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-59036\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If I were a seven year-old today and attending Easter mass, I know what I would like to see served at an Easter Service buffet. Naturally, everything would conform to a Jesus/Easter theme: Hot cross buns, hollow chocolate bunnies, and cereal in the shape of crosses and halos on one end; a deacon with a big knife to carve up the Lamb of God on the other. Or the Ham of God, since I wasn’t a fan of eating lamb back then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in the middle of everything would be a treat which would really bring home the drama of Christ’s Passion in edible form. Something delicious and filling, but would still remind us of Christ’s suffering with each and every mouthful: corn dogs on a cross.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They’re more substantial than a communion wafer, and more delicious, too. And, given the nature of hot dogs, you still won’t be certain from which part of the body they came.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the Catholic church suffering a loss in attendance, even at Easter time, drastic measures should be taken to reverse the decline. Ordaining women, getting rid of the celibacy rule, and welcoming gay, lesbian, and transgendered would be nice, but I don’t see these things happening any time soon, so they might as well throw a nice, big buffet and see what happens. Or they might come up with some other novel approaches. All they have to do is ask the seven year-olds* of their diocese. After all, Jesus loves the little children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This recipe is adapted from Saveur magazine’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/State-Fair-Corn-Dogs\">State Fair\u003c/a> recipe, which was, of course, gotten from poor people who work state fairs, who got it from some other people, who most likely got it from wheat and corn crops. And cows. And mustard companies. The using-a-chopstick-as-a-handle trick I learned from \u003ca href=\"http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2011/10/classic-corn-dogs-and-cheese-on-a-stick/\">Ree Drummond’s\u003c/a> website. She most likely learned this trick from Beatrice Lillie’s character Mrs. Meers in Thoroughly Modern Millie. And \u003ca href=\"http://mattbites.com/\">Matt Armendariz\u003c/a> will very likely be including this recipe in his upcoming Holidays On A Stick! cookbook (publishing date undetermined).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If the idea of squirting a mustard Jesus onto your corn dog makes you uncomfortable, you can still stay in theme by creating a condiment version of The Penitent Thief. Or The Impenitent one, if that is more your style.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Serves 8.\u003c/strong> To serve multitudes, pray over this recipe’s ingredients for as long as needed if you are perfect and without sin. For everyone else, multiply the recipe by hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\n\u003cli>2 cups all-purpose flour\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 1/3 cup yellow cornmeal\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>4 tablespoons sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 tablespoons baking powder\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon baking soda\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon dry mustard\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 teaspoon ground white pepper\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 teaspoons kosher salt\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 3/4 cups whole milk\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1/2 cup buttermilk\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 eggs, lightly flogged\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>16 6″ hot dogs. I have chosen to use chicken dogs, which is more than likely still offensive to practicing Catholics on Good Friday, but probably less so than beef franks.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Vegetable oil, for frying\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>4 pairs of wooden take-out chopsticks to serve as posts, 8 coffee stirrers to serve as crossbeams.\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Yellow mustard and (non-yellow) catsup for garnish\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>1. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, dry mustard, white pepper, and salt. In a separate bowl, combine milk, buttermilk, and egg until the trinity becomes a confusing, inseparable muddle. Add the liquid to the dry ingredients until all becomes binding and Universal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>2. In a wide, deep pan or Dutch oven (this requires more elbow room than an ordinary, non-Catholic corn dog recipe), pour oil to a depth of 2″ and warm over medium-high heat until the oil reaches 350°F.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Wiener-Demo.png\">\u003cimg src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2013/03/Wiener-Demo-290x290.png\" alt=\"Weiner demo\" width=\"290\" height=\"290\" class=\"alignright size-medium wp-image-59038\">\u003c/a>3. As the oil is heating, make the hot dog crucifixes. To assemble, cut about 2″ off the narrow part of each chop stick which, under ordinary circumstances, be the end one would place in one’s mouth. Discard the circumcised tips. Gently insert the chopstick into one end of a hot dog, until all that is left visible is a 2″ handle. Cut a second hot dog in thirds, discarding/sacrificing the center piece. These will be the arms of the cross. To attach, cut a coffee stirrer to the appropriate length and slide through the center of the top half of the whole wiener, then slide on the remaining 2/3 of cut wiener. (See photo**).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>4. Dip one crucifix into the batter, coating well. The batter should be firm and giving, but not run. If it is too dry, add a little milk. Too runny, add a little more flour. The batter is as forgiving as He is. Gently shake off any excess and lay directly into the pot of hot oil. Fry on one side for about 1 1/2 minutes. Using tongs, gently turn its other cheek and fry for the same amount of time. On the third minute, let it rise from the oil and rest on a shroud of paper towels to cool. Repeat until all crucifixes are battered and fried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>5. To serve, decorate with mustard. You do not have to put the image of Christ on every corn dog. If you have any martyrs in your family, feel free to squirt on their likeness and share it with them to show that you know how much they themselves have suffered, which will give them great comfort. Just please remind them not to bite into the coffee stirrer crossbeam, which most decidedly will not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>* Or eight year-olds. Luis Antonio de Bourbon was ordained cardinal on 19 December, 1735. He was eight years old\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>** Note: This is a photo of a practice-run crucifixion dog in which I discovered that coffee stirrers are excellent for sidebeam support, but terrible for for use as handles, which is why one should use chopsticks.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"disqusTitle": "Absinthe Jellies: I Got Them from Tom",
"title": "Absinthe Jellies: I Got Them from Tom",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Jellies.png\">\u003cimg class=\"alignleft size-medium wp-image-53422\" title=\"Absinthe Jellies\" src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Jellies-300x300.png\" alt=\"Absinthe Jellies\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\">\u003c/a>I entered this joyous season with a couple of heart-chilling stories I wanted to share with the world and some fun recipes to match.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unfortunately, the point driven home to me for the Holidays was that my capacity for coming up with interesting ideas is not always paired with the culinary talent for bringing them to fruition: the pot pie recipe I threw myself into wound up being thrown in the garbage, the Salted Carmelite nun candies I wanted to give out for Christmas looked warped and depressed in their nasty looking habits. I dare not go on. I will say that even my ability to fix myself a bowl of cereal with confidence was suspect.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was enough to drive a person to drink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, I recalled the eternal wisdom of the great Maria von Trapp who once said to her flock, \"Wenn der Herr eine Tür schließt, irgendwo Er öffnet ein Fenster,\" which roughly translates (and I do mean roughly) to \"When the Lord closes the door on your edible nun idea, somewhere he opens a window.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As luck would have it, that window happened to shine a divine light upon my liquor shelf. Even more fortunate was the fact that I happened to be browsing the internet reading up on Tom Lehrer, the great mid-20th Century composer of such songs as \"Poisoning Pigeons in The Park\" and \"The Masochism Tango.\" It was if by some unseen force that I was willed to read the Wikipedia passage that mentioned Professor Lehrer's (spurious) claim to have invented the Jell-O shot as a way to circumvent alcohol restrictions while working at Los Alamos Labs in New Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, just like that, faith in my cooking abilities was restored like a Christmas miracle. Or maybe it was just the booze talking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whatever the case, it is thanks to Maria von Trapp, God, Tom Lehrer, and that bottle of absinthe collecting dust on my liquor shelf that I am able to bring you a recipe that is sure to please (and thoroughly sozzle) your loved ones, just in time for the Holidays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Recipe: Absinthe Jellies\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These jellies are not for children, which is a good thing because in all likelihood, they would not like them. They are what they are, which is incredibly alcoholic. 110 proof. Please serve, suck, and chew them responsibly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Makes enough to summon a legion of green fairies for you and all of your adult loved ones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>3 cups of water\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>8 (1/4 ounce) packets of unflavored gelatin\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup of granulated sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 1/2 cups of absinthe\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 drops of green food coloring (this is not entirely necessary, but it does make them more appealing)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Plenty more granulated sugar for coating.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Pour the water into a medium saucepan and sprinkle the gelatin evenly over the surface. Leave unmolested for about five minutes, until the gelatin softens. Add one cup of sugar and whisk to combine.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Over low heat, stir the mixture with a rubber spatula, scraping down the sides of the pan as necessary until the sugar and gelatin are fully dissolved. It will take about 8 minutes to attain this state. Whatever you do, DO NOT BOIL. DO NOT EVEN SIMMER or the gelatin will not set properly and you will have wasted a lot of very expensive liquor, which is a crime in every state except Nevada.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Remove your pan of gelatin from the heat, add the absinthe and food coloring, then stir until all is well combined. If there is extra absinthe left in your absinthe bottle, wait until you have finished preparing this recipe until you drink it. Otherwise, I cannot claim responsibility for what happens.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Place an 8x8\" Pyrex baking dish onto a small baking sheet or tray that will fit such a thing, then pour your gelatin into the Pyrex dish. Place in your refrigerator to allow the near-liquid goo to cool and firm-- at least 2 hours or, better yet, over night. There is no need to cover your gelatin unless you also have left items such as creamed herring or durian fruit uncovered in the same refrigerator.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>To release your gelatin from its Pyrex confines, dip the container into hot water and (starting from the number one) count to the number seven. After you have wiped the bottom and sides of the Pyrex, place a small cutting board over the top of the container and quickly flip it upside down. The gelatin should now be released on its own recognizance. If it does not, repeat the t water trick and try again. Return the now-freed gelatin (still on the cutting board) to the refrigerator for a few minutes to the top and sides to re-firm themselves if necessary. Remove them only when you are ready to cut and serve.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Butt-Plug.png\">\u003cimg class=\"alignright size-medium wp-image-53421\" title=\"Absinthe Butt Plug\" src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Butt-Plug-300x300.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Slice the gelatin into any size you wish. If you have made the error of pouring some of the gelatin into an ice cream soda glass, thinking that it might make for an amusing Christmas Tree-like shape, think again. You will end up with something that looks like an advanced-level sex toy (see: photo on right). Small one-to-two bite squares are ideal and much less disturbing to friends and family.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>When you have sliced the gelatin into cubes, roll them in sugar, shaking off the excess. Serve immediately* to people you would like to see very drunk. If you decide against rolling them in sugar, they will not weep, but remain miraculously stable. However, they won't be as sweet. Do with them what you will.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>*When I say \"immediately,\" I mean \"immediately.\" These jellies are so laden with alcohol that the will begin to weep if left unattended without refrigeration which, coincidentally, is what the angels will do on your behalf if you eat too many of them. Should this occur (the weeping of the jellies, not the angels), re-roll them again in sugar before serving seconds.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "These jellies are not for children, which is a good thing because in all likelihood, they would not like them. They are what they are, which is incredibly alcoholic. 110 proof. Please serve, suck, and chew them responsibly.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Jellies.png\">\u003cimg class=\"alignleft size-medium wp-image-53422\" title=\"Absinthe Jellies\" src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Jellies-300x300.png\" alt=\"Absinthe Jellies\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\">\u003c/a>I entered this joyous season with a couple of heart-chilling stories I wanted to share with the world and some fun recipes to match.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unfortunately, the point driven home to me for the Holidays was that my capacity for coming up with interesting ideas is not always paired with the culinary talent for bringing them to fruition: the pot pie recipe I threw myself into wound up being thrown in the garbage, the Salted Carmelite nun candies I wanted to give out for Christmas looked warped and depressed in their nasty looking habits. I dare not go on. I will say that even my ability to fix myself a bowl of cereal with confidence was suspect.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was enough to drive a person to drink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Fortunately, I recalled the eternal wisdom of the great Maria von Trapp who once said to her flock, \"Wenn der Herr eine Tür schließt, irgendwo Er öffnet ein Fenster,\" which roughly translates (and I do mean roughly) to \"When the Lord closes the door on your edible nun idea, somewhere he opens a window.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As luck would have it, that window happened to shine a divine light upon my liquor shelf. Even more fortunate was the fact that I happened to be browsing the internet reading up on Tom Lehrer, the great mid-20th Century composer of such songs as \"Poisoning Pigeons in The Park\" and \"The Masochism Tango.\" It was if by some unseen force that I was willed to read the Wikipedia passage that mentioned Professor Lehrer's (spurious) claim to have invented the Jell-O shot as a way to circumvent alcohol restrictions while working at Los Alamos Labs in New Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, just like that, faith in my cooking abilities was restored like a Christmas miracle. Or maybe it was just the booze talking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whatever the case, it is thanks to Maria von Trapp, God, Tom Lehrer, and that bottle of absinthe collecting dust on my liquor shelf that I am able to bring you a recipe that is sure to please (and thoroughly sozzle) your loved ones, just in time for the Holidays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Recipe: Absinthe Jellies\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These jellies are not for children, which is a good thing because in all likelihood, they would not like them. They are what they are, which is incredibly alcoholic. 110 proof. Please serve, suck, and chew them responsibly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Makes enough to summon a legion of green fairies for you and all of your adult loved ones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ingredients:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>3 cups of water\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>8 (1/4 ounce) packets of unflavored gelatin\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>1 cup of granulated sugar\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 1/2 cups of absinthe\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>2 drops of green food coloring (this is not entirely necessary, but it does make them more appealing)\u003c/li>\n\u003cli>Plenty more granulated sugar for coating.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Preparation:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Pour the water into a medium saucepan and sprinkle the gelatin evenly over the surface. Leave unmolested for about five minutes, until the gelatin softens. Add one cup of sugar and whisk to combine.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Over low heat, stir the mixture with a rubber spatula, scraping down the sides of the pan as necessary until the sugar and gelatin are fully dissolved. It will take about 8 minutes to attain this state. Whatever you do, DO NOT BOIL. DO NOT EVEN SIMMER or the gelatin will not set properly and you will have wasted a lot of very expensive liquor, which is a crime in every state except Nevada.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Remove your pan of gelatin from the heat, add the absinthe and food coloring, then stir until all is well combined. If there is extra absinthe left in your absinthe bottle, wait until you have finished preparing this recipe until you drink it. Otherwise, I cannot claim responsibility for what happens.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Place an 8x8\" Pyrex baking dish onto a small baking sheet or tray that will fit such a thing, then pour your gelatin into the Pyrex dish. Place in your refrigerator to allow the near-liquid goo to cool and firm-- at least 2 hours or, better yet, over night. There is no need to cover your gelatin unless you also have left items such as creamed herring or durian fruit uncovered in the same refrigerator.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>To release your gelatin from its Pyrex confines, dip the container into hot water and (starting from the number one) count to the number seven. After you have wiped the bottom and sides of the Pyrex, place a small cutting board over the top of the container and quickly flip it upside down. The gelatin should now be released on its own recognizance. If it does not, repeat the t water trick and try again. Return the now-freed gelatin (still on the cutting board) to the refrigerator for a few minutes to the top and sides to re-firm themselves if necessary. Remove them only when you are ready to cut and serve.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Butt-Plug.png\">\u003cimg class=\"alignright size-medium wp-image-53421\" title=\"Absinthe Butt Plug\" src=\"http://ww2.kqed.org/bayareabites/wp-content/uploads/sites/24/2012/12/Absinthe-Butt-Plug-300x300.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\">\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli style=\"list-style-type: none\">\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>Slice the gelatin into any size you wish. If you have made the error of pouring some of the gelatin into an ice cream soda glass, thinking that it might make for an amusing Christmas Tree-like shape, think again. You will end up with something that looks like an advanced-level sex toy (see: photo on right). Small one-to-two bite squares are ideal and much less disturbing to friends and family.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003col>\n\u003cli>When you have sliced the gelatin into cubes, roll them in sugar, shaking off the excess. Serve immediately* to people you would like to see very drunk. If you decide against rolling them in sugar, they will not weep, but remain miraculously stable. However, they won't be as sweet. Do with them what you will.\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ol>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>*When I say \"immediately,\" I mean \"immediately.\" These jellies are so laden with alcohol that the will begin to weep if left unattended without refrigeration which, coincidentally, is what the angels will do on your behalf if you eat too many of them. Should this occur (the weeping of the jellies, not the angels), re-roll them again in sugar before serving seconds.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
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"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
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"radiolab": {
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},
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"info": "The Snap Judgment radio show and podcast mixes real stories with killer beats to produce cinematic, dramatic radio. Snap's musical brand of storytelling dares listeners to see the world through the eyes of another. This is storytelling... with a BEAT!! Snap first aired on public radio stations nationwide in July 2010. Today, Snap Judgment airs on over 450 public radio stations and is brought to the airwaves by KQED & PRX.",
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"soldout": {
"id": "soldout",
"title": "SOLD OUT: Rethinking Housing in America",
"tagline": "A new future for housing",
"info": "Sold Out: Rethinking Housing in America",
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