There is no way out of here

 I took on a writing project recently that I thought would be easy to casually write out over a few months. I later ran into what is often referred to as "the elephant in the room". That thing was the presence of a person intrinsic to the events that took place in 67% of the period I chose to write. This definitely complicated matters, but never did I think that it could not be done.

Now that I have reached that intersection, I realize that the pace is going to slow down dramatically because I suddenly am required to walk the next several miles on broken glass. Working on such precision points of focus to show respect for the other person has far more personal obstacles than I thought there would be. 

I now can see potential dangers from the corners of my own mind in which I could display blame or resentment because of my self-imposed rules. Below the surface, details I vow to not tell might be the equations of why things are the way they are, yet they can only exist in a silent world. I also can see a raw paradox since I have to inject such mature principles in writing about a time in which maturity was so scarce. Then again, maybe that is what allows us to see it so clearly as opposed to thinking that the writer is two-dimensional and missing the point.

Photo by Guillermo Ferla on Unsplash

I now realize that this type of project goes so much deeper than mere storytelling. It is a detour into places that may not be given proper consideration. It also makes me realize we all have a point in life that we are so hyper-focused on one thing while at the same time, something else is there that seems commonplace and we hardly acknowledge it. Then, forty years later, you would give anything to have given more attention to the things taken for granted.  I now see this in me and have seen it in previous generations too. 

When I decide to reach back in time and bring forward memories that would have continued to fade, the ink defines itself against the white page and the blurriness of the lines goes away. The print becomes sharp again and with it, I am suddenly knocked off my feet and taken in the middle of the night into the past whether I want to be or not. I learn things, I feel things. It is a trip to the moon, you cannot change your mind once the journey begins. The countdown has passed, my harness is holding me tight and the force of takeoff is pushing hard on my chest. 

The reality is, I chose this mission and also everything that I will see along the way. There is no way out of here, so deal with it.

1985 Chapter 8: The swan dive

May arrived and the days became surreal, I had my new job working for the City of Port Aransas. The 100-plus mile trip I had been making with my Dad's 74 Chrysler that got 8 miles to the gallon on a good day, became a 2-minute drive to the City Maintenance Shop. The idea of not having to drive off the island every day was incredible. 

I spent two days a week pumping out the skid-o-kans on the beach. Dad pointed out that this was one of the best jobs because all you had to do was what you were supposed to and no one would mess with you. I did this driving a beautiful 1977 3/4 ton Chevy Pickup that sported a 400 cubic inch engine under the hood. It had an 8Track player and I had plenty of those. The truck had a 300-gallon fiberglass fresh water tank in the back of it and pulled a 600-gallon waste tank on a trailer behind it. It was not a bad job spending the days on the beach.

Photo by Sheeyam on Unsplash

The other three days picking up brush, helping the beach crew after a particularly heavy traffic weekend, planting road and street signs, and general public works.  Life was good. I was already friends with most people in the department.

Only a few months had passed since my December 1984 hibernation in which I nearly felt like the last person on earth until my Dad arrived home after 4 in the afternoon. Port Aransas had become completely different than it was only 6 months ago. Now it was an actual community. I was learning how to do things in leaps and bounds. At first, my lack of self-esteem was left over from my directionless teenage years, the oil refinery days and all of my friends were still just about twice my age. But my balance was perfect. Two days a week I could be introspective. The other three days, I benefited from a fair amount of social interaction.  It all worked.

Dad was more content too.  I had this steady income in which I did not have to be gone half my life with his vehicle and I did not really need a car either. My Dodge, still sitting in the front yard torn to pieces from the universal joint accident on Park Road 53 back on March 4th, had not been touched since we rope towed it home.

Looking back on these days, now that I have sons coming of age I fully understand my Dad's world at this time. His love and his restraint were amazing. I was nineteen and although I would listen, there was still not much you could tell me. It is here that I find such respect for Dad. I am not sure if he did not know what to do with this or the more likely option, he knew what was ahead for me. He knew that arguing me into submission was unnecessary and that lessons were coming and in them, great wisdom too. Don't get me wrong, he had his say, but he did not push it like an overprotective parent. The military term, "Deadly Force" means, applying just enough force to subdue the enemy, and not even a little more than what was needed. Dad had this when advising us and protesting our actions if he thought they were misguided. Joe was great at assessing how much effort was needed to expend on any cause. 

My life now was safely contained in the bubble that was Port Aransas. The world north of the ship channel did not exist. Other than turning on a Corpus Christi TV station which I only did a little of, there was no state or national news. The South Jetty, and the Island News, the two weekly newspapers contained all we needed to know, and they only knew Port Aransas. It was truly "Island Time". A Twilight Zone-like state of mind that causes you to lose yourself. The past is there, but it becomes subdued like it was maybe a book or a dream. Sure, I was "all-Port Aransas" in October, November, and December of last year, but here I was both living and working in Port A, and it was different. I was welcomed into this secret club that just existed, that voided everything else out. I was pretty sure if I had ideas of leaving, I would not be able to.

I noticed a tendency in myself to need to stay quiet, and I did not always do that. I was young, I was hanging mostly with people older than me. I think I was seeking approval from people with more experience than me.

It would have been easier to have moved to Port A while I was still attending high school, but it did not happen that way. If you are wondering about college, believe me when I tell you, it was a mythical thing, a fictitious time and money burner that was absolutely not ever thought of or believed in. My defiance was so absolute. I had broken records on the statewide aptitude tests in Connecticut back in 1981, and the guidance counselors pounded on me to aim high. Thanks to the drills I endured at the Franco-American clubs with my mother's ex-boyfriend back in the late 70s, I was in full defense mode and I resisted all efforts to "make something of myself". I really showed them!  College did not even exist in my mind. It was a joke.

I was adjusting well to my work situation and hanging out at some friend's house with whom I worked. They were a little younger than my Dad. She worked on the beach crew and her husband worked with me in the regular ranks of the Public Works department. Another woman was working on the beach crew who I liked and our mutual friend set us up for a double date for drinks at Mariners Inn Friday of Memorial Day Weekend. 

 If I was looking to be able to hang with people twice my age, this was where to do that. I was 19, and she was 26. Her story is not my story to tell. She was a survivor in so many ways. She had 3 kids, 10, 8 and 6. They were great, brilliant, and creative. As far as relationships go, I climbed the highest ladder I could find, with difficulty levels that I did not even know existed, and stepped off the high dive. I rushed into the relationship like I was trying to save people in a burning building.  I offered help and companionship in places where she had not had it in years. I wanted everything because I saw how incredible she was. The friendship that we had was probably exactly what each of us needed, and it went so much further.

1985 changed this weekend for me, instantly. I would make many terrible decisions going forward.  This instantly pulled me out of the household with Dad and Brooke. For them, this was nothing different than watching an addict slip out of control. I rushed in with such intensity. There was no challenge I would not accept when it came to this. My lack of experience with such a complicated relationship kept adrenaline flowing most of my days and I drank hard by night to soothe.

There was a sticker on the little triangle vent window of Jeri's 1965 dark green Chevrolet Super Sport, it was black and silver, and it read: "Onward Thru The Fog". No matter what happened, I never stopped moving forward to stay the course of our relationship. I moved into the little travel trailer that she lived in Mayfield's trailer park. With such intensity, I got a running start and performed a perfect swan dive off the edge of the volcano.

Crossroads at Junction City

 I was asked to provide a lunch for a group of executives where I work. With nine people attending, they would be ready to eat around 1:00 PM on a Thursday afternoon. I did not hesitate when I was asked if this was something that I would be willing to do.  I knew that I was capable. Almost a week went by before I received an official ask from the president of our company if I would provide this lunch.  I casually stepped up with a cool, "I could do that."

For the last 4 weeks on Fridays, I have produced a light lunch for 12-16 people in the office without any previous notice. Because of that, for some people, it was lunch, for others a snack, and for others something to take home for dinner. From gourmet popcorn, Korean street toast, lomein, and fried rice, I have had the opportunity to share with coworkers. It has been fun for me, for them, and overall a great life experience for all.

In 2019, I cooked at 2 summer lunchtime cookout events, with up to 165 people attending at work. The first time was Korean street tacos, which technically there is nothing official for this. My take on this was inspired by watching Mike Greenfield knock out a bibimbap burger on Brothers Green, now known as ProHome Cooks. I saw what Mike was doing and thought, "Why can't I create a taco that contains bulgogi beef, topped with several appropriate side dishes that are normally built into the famous Korean mixed rice dish, and top this with a spicy gochujang-based sauce?" This was a huge hit.

A few weeks later, by popular demand, southwest eggrolls were requested. Again, the 165-person cookout contained regular summer favorites grilled up by our leadership, burgers, hot dogs, and a nice spread of slaws, potato salads, and desserts. The eggrolls were a big hit, served with a homemade cucumber dipping sauce. Even more fun was that several coworkers helped me prep and roll the eggrolls the night before. Close to 200 rolls.

In 2018, I did these egg rolls at the Claremont Farmers Market. It was a good day, but it included 7 hours of intense prep the night before ending at one that morning.

These experiences made it possible for me to say yes. I also received major support from someone named Jessica who taught me, throughout a couple of years since, about tools that made me believe that I could take the culinary hill one small task at a time, without internally disassembling my confidence by getting overwhelmed by the big picture.

When I was officially asked to do this executive lunch, the president stated "If there is a way for them to participate, I know several would really like that." As soon as I saw those words, I knew, this lunch needed to be Korean Barbeque. There is no greater participation, than cooking something yourself.

At first, I was so focused on this meal that I mistook the date for next week's Thursday. When I came up to the next Monday, a friend pointed out that it was not taking place for another week and a half. I already had 5 days of testing done, I made Kimchi the previous weekend and was not happy with it, despite it leveling out later on to what I think is acceptable in its own right. It just wasn't the kimchi I was aiming to make.

I purchased a 2nd tabletop grill personally because having 2 of these even for family events cannot be wrong. We made several meals in which we tried different types of meat, sauces, vegetables, and pastes. Most noteworthy was, that I found a video of a Korean Chef showing the process of how they make brisket into super thin shaved steak to put on the tabletop grill to be cooked by the people dining. I followed this video on making the right cuts. The one thing I do not have is a commercial meat slicer. I semi-froze the marbled cut of meat, then pulled it out to cut with a very sharp knife.

That Saturday night when we sat at our kitchen table ready to test this brisket idea out. It was horrible! There is a reason Texans smoke this cut of meat low and slow all day long. It's tough. It is not gristle. It is just the meat. It requires a half hour of chewing per mouthful! When I thought about how I almost did not test and went straight to lunch with this cut of meat, I shuddered inside at the thought of what a chewing festival that would have been. All of the uneasy and polite smiles while they all screamed inside their own heads, "Never again!"

There was an old commercial back in the 90s when landlines were still the primary telephone. It would show a person driving a great distance, wasting time to buy or see something that actually was found to not be available when they arrived. The commercial always ended with its trademark tagline, "You could have called." So anticipating that I needed some professional butcher help getting some of the beef and pork belly cuts right, I called. The only grocery store in driving distance that will slice, cut, and grind meat around here is Market Basket. All the rest are owned by international, greedy conglomerates who could care less (Yes, especially you Scammaford). 

In the 2 calendar weeks leading up to the lunch, I placed calls asking the meat department all about what I knew I was going to need. They immediately said yes to the slicing of the pork belly, to the band saw cutting of the flanken cut beef short ribs, and to the paper-thin slicing of the boneless short ribs. I asked about how much time they needed beforehand and their availability.

Then came the week of the lunch. I decided for good measure to call 2 days in advance. Suddenly, availability was a problem, and the person I was speaking to stated he had 29 years of experience cutting meat. As our conversation progressed, I also could extrapolate that this is someone who has probably made the statement hundreds of times in his life: "I am a meat and potatoes man." This tripped me up with fears of falling into the 1950s post-World War 2 establishment mentality. I was cooking meat that sometimes was considered a seasoning, an accent, or a social experience, and I was trying to procure this from someone who saw meat as a brick or blob of something that sat on Corelle Ware, next to overcooked vegetables, god-awful mashed potatoes just waiting to be assaulted with A-1 steak sauce and pointy steak knives that were purchased on clearance when KMart closed it's doors. 

Every item I asked about was met with some sort of negative feedback, even if in undercurrent. The conversation was filled with a lot of awkward pauses, sighs, and "aaahhhh's" to finally end with, "I think it would be best if you called my manager tomorrow morning." The man was always courteous and respectful, but he clearly thought I was asking too much and some things, he did not know what I was requesting.

My friend and colleague Sabrina, who has worked with me on the 2 large cooking projects we did back in 2019 and another cooking class event last year, was really looking forward to taking up the sous chef role in Thursday's lunch.  At 3:08 PM on Tuesday, a driver came off the interstate who did not stop at all for the stop sign at the end of the ramp. A vehicle accident was the result. She and her little girl were bruised and shaken up because of the collision and thankfully were able to go home after getting checked out at the hospital. Of course, Sabrina could not be my sous chef this time.

Because I was working in the office on Tuesday, I ran to the store that evening, picked up some items, and brought them back to place in the large refrigerators at work. That seemed like a good idea. My fridges at home are usually overwhelmed with stuff I am doing. Also, on Wednesday night, after Noah's award ceremony up in Hartford, I would just come back here and work till 11 or 12 at night, prepping side dishes, and marinating the meat for LA Galbi (Korean beef short ribs).

Wednesday was a busy day for me. I got right on the phone and spoke with the Meat Department manager. He was OK, but he did mention his slicer is old and may not cut the pork belly as thin as I wanted. He could not do the boneless short rib paper-thin strips for sure. 

I had regular work and an appointment at the VA at 2. I then hit the produce market,  the Asian market, and BJ's. While at BJ's I did find some sirloin strip steak with perfect marbling. I would freeze this a little so I can hand slice it into paper-thin strips. They had slab pork belly there which if I partially froze it I could slice it ultra thin. They also had the flanken cut ribs, already cut the way I needed them. Wisely, hoping for failure or latency, I called Market Basket to see if they got to my order yet. Of course they did, it was ready. Oh well, hopefully, it all works.

I was really hoping that I would have time to run into Claremont to pick up the meat that I had ordered from Market Basket. There was not enough time. I got home, threw the steak in the freezer that I purchased at BJ's and we headed up to Hartford for Noah's National Technical Honor Society Award Ceremony. This was such a wonderful thing. He had worked all his school career, two significant runs of homeschooling, and public school that he put himself back into in 7th grade. He was also part of the Pandemic Generation, those Gen Z's who had to school at home through Google Classroom. If you ask me, homeschooling actually gave Noah an edge on this. All of this manifested itself and he put into great effort just like he does with all adversity, and achieved this recognition.

After this, it did not seem right to not have a celebratory dinner and for this, Noah chose Applebees. Liam and Haylie joined us and by the time we got out of there, it was 9 o'clock. I got home, pulled the steak out of the freezer, and successfully sliced it as thin as I could with a knife.  I made the marinade for the LA Galbi and put that in the refrigerator. I was not exactly happy with it. There were eight cloves of garlic in it and they did not taste very sweet to me. As I tried to prepare more for tomorrow, I detected that I was making little mistakes. This was the sign that it was time for me to go to bed.

I got up early and made sauces, packed up the truck with everything that I could think that I needed, and went to get the meat order from Market Basket. One more stop when I realized that I did not consider drinks. By the time I got up in the kitchen, it was 10 AM. I knew the 3 hours would go by fast.

LA Galbi is at its best when it marinates overnight. Here I was, 3 hours before serving and I have not even started yet! I knew that the very first thing I needed to do was to get the meat into that marinade immediately. Quickly, I pulled out a clean container, placed the meat in it, and poured the marinade over it, making sure, all of the meat surface was in contact with the liquid. I covered it and moved on to another task. 

It was about 10 minutes later as my brain was organizing what I had done so far with what I still had to do that I realized I had made a terrible mistake. When ribs are cross-cut on a band saw, it leave behind little pieces of bone fragments all over the meat. This and any residue produced by the cutting have to be thoroughly washed from the ribs before they go into the marinade. This was not something I could just let go of and hope it would be sufficient or not noticeable. The taste is affected by not washing and of course, to have little pebbles of bone in the meat would make it inedible.

I called Donna, while still not knowing how I would remediate this. I was thinking that I could salvage as much of the marinade from the ribs as I could, wash the ribs, and then strain the marinade through a very fine mesh strainer. My first concern was maybe that would not get every fragment out. That worried me. I also knew that I was going to lose a lot of marinade too and I would need to add more. This was easier said than done because the marinade contains a whole Asian pear. Those are sold in 3's at Market Basket for ten dollars. 

In the first sentence, I said the words mesh and strainer, but then something happened when my brain finally added up all of the concerns above. Like listening to someone else, I heard myself say, "Take 2 apples, half an onion, and 3 garlic cloves, put them in the bullet, puree them, and bring them to me." I was not even thinking about that itself, I only had worried about residual bone fragments, and adding to the marinade = DO NOT REUSE. Make it with what you have. 

Once I had this, I dumped soy sauce, rice wine vinegar, sesame oil, and brown sugar into the container, placed the lid on, and shook it to mix. I dumped the ribs into a huge bowl scrubbed them under cold running water and put them back in the new marinade. Que Sera Sera.

Between 11 and 12, Liam arrived and did everything I requested perfectly. It was like making myself into two. I could think of something and he would take on that task while I did another. I was so thankful to have him working with me. Had he not been there, I know that I could not have been ready because we were ready for 1.

We grilled the marinated beef short ribs for the LA Galbi. It was sweet, savory and smokey. Perfect! The pork belly was grilled since it was cut 1/2 inch thick instead of 1/8 as I wanted it to be. It was great despite a little blackening from yellow flames when the grill decided to flare up due to residue. No beef brisket was served today and as far as I can determine, that is something you will never catch me serving. The nicely marbled strip steak that I cut paper thin by hand the night before was excellent. After 30-60 seconds on the tabletop grill, it was melt-in-your-mouth delicious. 

The banchan (Korean side dishes) included sauteed carrots, cucumber, zucchini, spicey braised tofu, two types of kimchi, two kinds of beansprouts, one savory and one spicy, sauteed daikon, bean paste, onions, scallions, sauteed peppers, fresh peppers, mushrooms, and peppers. Sweet-miso-soy sauce and bibimbap sauce, ssam-jang. White rice, lettuce leaf wraps, and pickled daikon wraps.

At 1:15 Liam announced that the lunch party was arriving. We greeted everyone and gave them an overview of how this Korean Barbeque would work. You could tell, no one was expecting anything like this.

Over the next hour, we filled the space with smoke from the grills and with an experience that our executives will not forget. The look on their faces as they entered the room was the best. A meal they could participate in cooking made the whole room buzz with team-building excitement. They had so many questions and there were so many conversations as a whole and between individuals that the whole room became socially dynamic. In fact, without Liam to fill me in on what he saw and heard, I could only have experienced maybe half of the experience.

It was a wonderful day for me working with Liam. It reminded me of our summer or fall nights working at a local farm resort as help during weddings. Only, this was better than that. The experience of working with my son that day was priceless. 

I was stressed a lot leading up to this day. It was not because I was worried that I would fail, it was because although I knew I could do it, I lacked the experience of putting out this kind of meal to this size group and in this setting. We occasionally do Korean Barbeque at home, but this is what I would consider a safe space. My space where I have all of my staples, just the right vessels and utensils. Repeatedly putting out meals at work on Fridays has provided that M*A*S*H unit level of adaptability and I like that. 

Thanks to testing dishes on my family, note-booking, whiteboarding, and researching collectively have brought about success. Multiple people also said that my level of expectation and standard could make even a less than my standard experience seem great to someone who is not used to eating my food, but make no mistake, this was not a "less than standard" experience.

The LA Galbi that I rescued came out exceptional and grilling the pork belly worked since it was cut thicker than I wanted it. Were there shortcomings? I never got to prepare the spinach side dish, which would have been a treat, but we had plenty of side dishes. We missed putting a wooden spoon or paddle in the rice cooker, so people were trying to manage taking rice with little plastic spoons. The extra stop that I made for drinks that morning was for nothing because, I never announced that drinks were in the kitchen, nor did I offer them at the meal. No one seemed to notice.

This experience has made me realize that my type of cooking is going the way that I have always wanted it to. To be ready anytime, and anywhere. No borders, no restaurants, and no limits. Basically, a Swiss army knife of options that can be whatever it will be.

In 1999, in Junction City, Kansas, I had no idea that on that day, everything would change starting right then and there. Over the next few years, I dreamed of the day when instinct and technique would become the principles upon which I created meals. There is no doubt that it happened. Wanting something so much that I did not understand and yet led to achieving it anyway. If I could go from where I was to where I am today, it can only mean that any of us can achieve anything if we want it bad enough. 

The inevitable season

 I have been down this road better than 50 times that I can likely remember. It is the same and individually different. It always starts with the warmth of kitchens and a smell that brings me back to childhood days of crisp mornings, fresh paper, and the electromagnetic hum of fluorescent ballast.

The retreat happened over and over. We always knew it would be there. Days would become bright, but only because the dim light was unobstructed. Then in the four o'clock hour, the darkness came and there it stayed for three months. 

Solace came across the nighttime stratosphere. A blowtorch that could be seen in the darkness across 400 miles of an infinitely dark sky. It reached across the Atlantic Ocean to the coast of Killadoon shining bright, clear through to the west coast of the African continent. 

Radio waves, electric motors, and incandescent bulbs did their minimal damage to the great voice of friendship that reached across the darkness and kept me moving forward to the days in which I could climb the steps, swinging open the door of my personal bomb shelter, flooding everything with light again.

The day begins, the music is almost subliminal. But then with a great power, it happens. There is nothing that can stop it. The outside wakes up, and the land will grow with a vengeance that cannot be stopped now. The greens will share gentle and a variety of shades, that later, as protection will darken knowing that what is ahead, a few more days must be strived for.

Photo by Susanne Alexander on Unsplash

The sun gets warmer and the stratosphere can no longer deliver the ally who comforts me in the darkness. That is okay. With each season comes its particular visitors. 

The be here now mindset has always been a selective one for me. I might be called a fair-weather friend. All I know is that as the leaves break free from the buds on the branches to claim their natural rights, there is always something so familiar and yet something so new. The intensity of sensory appreciation is fully manifest. It is something that for some reason, is a struggle to maintain. As the weeks scroll by ever so quickly, desensitization lies in wait for a gray ambush. It is a battle that must be fought daily so that on the last day I do not look back thinking that it could have been different.

As I stood in that room in Corpus Christi in the Spring of 1996, everything was clarified for me. That of course is the extreme, but an ever-present reminder that it is important to appreciate a warm Summer day, to take in the scene, pause to look at the night sky, to be where I am, and not to worry about where I will be later.

So here today, I yield to the power of the season, promising this time it will be different. 

How Drill and Ceremony saved me

 The General is coming. This is an announcement I have heard many times. From the moment these words were spoken, intensive repetition commenced. Hours of duplicating every step taken, every word shouted, every head turn and every order to present arms. It was out of this, that a large group of many would become one synchronized machine. Every heel hitting the ground would sharply thunder. Every move made would snap with precision. Words became one voice. The General would arrive, and in a 60-second choreographed production, the hours of work would meet their goal. He expected nothing less. Nothing could ever go wrong. This is the art and curse of Drill and Ceremony.

I have pulled my fair share of fire-guard too. In a military barracks, no one dies in a fire because there is never a chance for the fire to go undetected. Beginning at 9 PM, 1-hour shifts begin, in which one person per floor is assigned to walk the halls, making sure that no dangers arise as the rest of the unit sleeps. When one guard comes to the end of his hour shift, he awakens his relief, and this goes on until wake-up comes at the god-forsaken hour of 4 AM. Not only is this a 100 % guarantee of people's safety as they sleep, but it is also the perfect training vehicle for just about every type of guard duty that soldier will encounter ahead. It is mastery through regimen and repetition.

For me, all of this type of experience happened when I was 24. I had been living a life of making minute to minute decisions and that is a characteristic that has followed me through the decades. I admit it is much more watered down, thanks to no longer being in my 20's and also lack of alcohol, but I still am a "non-planner" in some ways.

I am grateful that I did have this regimined style of life though for 10 years because it has given me something to pull from the toolset and use when I need to. While certain tasks may seem like no-brainers in a book, on YouTube and in theory, there is a world of difference in the tasking it out.

That is critically true in matters such as, backpacking, camping, public speaking and cooking. In the last quarter century I have quite the resume of cooking wins and losses. One may think that no matter what I do, I will have a higher degree of success even on a bad day respectively. But failure comes in many forms when it comes to cooking. 

Typically, flavor is the one place that someone with 25 years of mad-scientist like experience should not encounter much. I am happy to report, I am pretty good here, although I can make the mistake at times of not tasting along the way because of being distracted with meeting time goals and that can cause flavors to start going off course. 

Texture is also something that must be checked in on at inception and later on, in taste testing. Asthetics too, it should look delicious, not just taste delicious.

Just because an entire genre does something a certain way, that does not mean that it is made in the shade at home. Environment and tools account for much. I learned this lesson yesterday. I am about to deploy a significant cooking mission. I am doing Korean barbeque for roughly a dozen diners. It is Korean tradition to use beef brisket for the super thin portions of beef that are placed on the fire or grill and cooked by the diners themselves. 

I cut the brisket as seen in a video in which the chef was processing the brisket for use in Korean Barbeque. I partially froze the meat so that I could slice thinner. Of course in the video, they had a commercial meat slicer like those used at the deli. I could not achieve anywhere close to this thinness. Any Texan knows there is a reason that smoked brisket is smoked low and slow. That meat is seriously tough.

Thank goodness for those seemingly ridiculous days doing Drill and Ceremony for hours on end so that some ego-centric General could walk or drive by us in a matter of seconds or minutes. Yesterday, I did my D&C and I am so thankful that I did. The beef brisket turned the meal into a chewing festival. I don't need to tell you that this level of mistake compared to what my diners are expecting would had been an epic failure for me.

I could not help but think, thank goodness for all those years doing those stupid drills. I have been testing and practicing for this even for a week now. I have learned a great deal. I have a long way to go. Every public cooking event I take on, is never without important lessons learned or the epiphany of realizing a better way.

I don't know yet what I will do to replace the brisket, but thanks to what I did yesterday, I did not make this terrible error. 

2000 Mistakes

 Remember those wonderful Bob Ross shows we used to watch on PBS? When Bob decided that the scene needed some "happy little trees" in the background, he seemingly waved the brush over the canvas with a scribble motion and the trees came to life. It was always a joy to watch. 

I never aspired to paint,  sparing myself from wondering if I could reach such a pinnacle. But there were things in my life that I did wish to achieve such proficiency.  Playing guitar was one of those things, but the time commitment that takes is significant. The last time I had that kind of time was in 1986. I am ok with this. In fact, I feel I am not done with that side of my creativity.

In 1999, in Junction City, Kansas I experienced my first most amazing meal ever. As I sat there with five of my friends, I never imagined that I could reach any kind of culinary achievement. Three years later, on a completely different planet, I set out to make my first spinach artichoke dip. This Saturday-kitchen-devouring mission was all-consuming. It also had the cleanup effort requirement of an oil tanker spill.

2,000 mistakes and misfires brought about 50,000 wins and knowledge that others have tried to pay for yet never received. I have always been the make-something-out-of-nothing guy, and learning to cook was all that for me.

I've had very good inspiration. Yes, in popular culinary media, there are ways to pick up this or that. My true inspiration came from people who I spent important times in my life with. My Dad always had this incredible drive to not follow any known paths, letting his curiosity, and need for a specific taste right then and there lead the way. Late one Saturday night, when the Family Center had the excellent idea to market cast iron frying pans, with a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon, shrink-wrapped together. It was too tempting. That led to a late-night culinary expedition that started with those ingredients and became so much; the food, the conversation, the creativity, and old stories.

Another inspiration comes from my friend Nick. He was raised in restaurants. It is in his DNA. The unique thing about Nick is, he has the same, make something from nothing mentality. We shared a Gulf War deployment over 30 years ago. With limited resources, obtained through others by questionable means, I watched his limitless creativity in full force. Just like me, just like my father, Nick has let his desire to see what the possibilities can be, fire his culinary drive.

In the 25 years of expanding my culinary ambitions, I have learned something amazing. The more I do this the easier it gets. The 22-year-old spinach artichoke dip now can be made anywhere, anytime, and you could have a conversation with me as I make it and barely notice that I am working on something this significant. I could make it, in my kitchen, I could make it with a chicken, I could make it here or there, I could make it anywhere.

That is nothing compared to what happens when time and complexity demands are placed on me. Just like working out regularly, I am building strength and confidence that I can do more than I ever knew. Complex, choreographed, large-group cooking adventures are now possible and enjoyable.  There is a pleasant side effect to this escalation of complex cooking ability. Making something on those nights when we have no idea what to make or where to start.  Now, there are always possibilities. Out of all of the benefits, it is interesting to me that the most basic benefit is the greatest one of all.

Democracy is coming

 It's coming from the feel

That it ain't exactly real

Or it's real, but it ain't exactly there

-Leonard Cohen, Democracy 1992

It has been like that lately. There are many points of focus and there are distractions too. Echos of Another Earth seem normal these days. I hesitated to make popcorn one day because I knew where that could lead. I knew it needed to be done, and that symbolically, it represents my whole business plan.  Like Ike and Tina knocking out Proud Mary, it starts out nice and easy, and then...well you know.

I heard others talk about it. They got their cooking out into the open and then it took on a life of its own. I acknowledge that what I have is just a small flame that could easily be blown out with a gust of wind, and I also understand that it could start a wildfire.

It is the escalation that I want to understand. I know that in any undiscovered country, there are things that simply do not count. It is through the making of simple mistakes that the greatest education comes. Balancing the learning exercises while navigating around the sinkholes of needless time sucks is what takes discernment.

I made Kimchi this weekend. I have made Kimchi for many years now. I have been pretty consistent in doing so. Last time, right around the beginning of this year, I changed things up due to gaining more education, I decided to move out of my comfort zone. In doing so, I made some of the best kimchi I have ever made. 4 months later, my perception of how I made this was somewhat distorted. For the first time, I made a batch of kimchi that I didn't like. As far as I am concerned it is way out of balance.

Because this is for a project I am working on, I will need to make another quickly. <sigh>

I spent most of the weekend working in the kitchen, reading and testing. I changed up the music, most interestingly a Partridge Family playlist. I have some extremely diverse playlists (excluding country of course) for cooking. This was particularly fun although I think it is a once in so many years sort of thing.

Mixing things up is what it is all about though. The thing that made January's Kimchi so good was adding miso paste to it, which definitely crosses some lines. For my up-and-coming project which leans heavily in a Korean direction, I am creating a sweet and savory miso sauce for the palate that does not want spice. Again, mixing it up. Blurring the lines is what is happening here. I can feel the definition, it is significant. Like the revealing of a host of new planets, we are crossing a threshold. In the hour before sunrise, I can only imagine what the landscape looks like. 

It is knowing what needs to happen and what can be avoided. Knowing me, despite my best efforts, you will probably catch me hammering a few square pegs into round holes, it is unavoidable. Again, my friend Leonard said it best:

"But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags
That time cannot decay
I'm junk but I'm still holding up
This little wild bouquet"

1985 Chapter 7 column right!

 The daily use of Dad's car continued. I drove the truck to work once or twice, but there was always something that made me feel that it was not quite as dependable. The crop-dusting cloud of burning oil behind it as I climbed the bridge of the causeway into Flour Bluff didn't help either. 

Photo by Trac Vu on Unsplash

It seemed like life would be going like this indefinitely, well until the "turnarounds" which were the 12 hours on 12 hours off days just before the new section of the refinery started up for the first time.   

Working every day now for months with Jeri was a tug of war of wills. He was fire-testing every aspect of what made me who I was, and I did my best to defy in passive-aggressive areas in which I could get away with it. Of course, work was one thing, he was my fitter and I needed to follow his instructions. I pulled out the stops of my youth put some frustration into the work and used it as a drive to make things happen. He noticed this, and I was starting to understand what it took to succeed in work like this. From that point, I knew that it is not easy, you just have to fight to win every moment.

Socially however, it seemed as though I was still 13 years old, sitting in the Franco-American club, sipping on ice-filled glasses with 3 molecules of Coca-Cola in them undergoing the drilling of my mother's boyfriend Richard of how I needed to buckle down and make something of myself now. I was programmed to defend myself by offending the dealer of this wisdom. The shock value of my decision to do the opposite frustrated and bewildered them. Looking back, I feel bad for them because their hearts were in the right place. I also feel bad for myself, because undoing such poor behavior took so long to deconstruct.

Despite all, I loved Jeri. He was a mentor to me. I felt bad about one day during lunch. There was a little shack about a mile from the refinery where we sometimes got a lunch sandwich. When we got our food, the Chrysler would not start. Jeri slid under the car to jump the starter with a screwdriver. I closed the heavy driver's door, not knowing that his hand was where the door and the fender met, crushing his finger. Several minutes of screaming in pain and walking around in circles followed. I felt so awful.

At home, Dad's focus on family was so acute, that he reminded me of the steady and stern father I knew when I was 5. I arrived home on the island one night and he reported that Little Jimmy, the first person I ever met in Port A had gotten abruptly done working for the Public Works department. He said that if I moved fast, there would be no doubt, I could secure that job and end the over 100 miles of driving I was doing every day.

I was a shoo-in for the position. The months I had spent in the refinery were a gift. Had I just gone from sitting home playing guitar like I did the last quarter of last year, and then going to work for the City of Port Aransas, I probably would have not adjusted so well. Fortunately, I spent 4 months in a rough neighborhood with 100's of other construction workers. Working for the city was nearly like coming home. I did have to learn to drive larger trucks, tractors, and other equipment, but the social aspect was good. I would get to learn the machinery. Other than that, I was still a clueless 19-year-old. Right turn.

The Standoff

 I almost fell for it. The storm of time had pounded the resolve that I grasped like a sunken post during a tornado. I was happy with my determination to hold on. What I did not count on is the cunning deception that whispers about the miles walked, the struggles fought, and watching the surroundings rust around me. They were used like chess pieces slowly moving into position to prepare for the strike. I was the one with my hand on the handle of the airlock. It was then something went off inside my brain, shaking me into what was really happening.

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

It was the pain that woke me. The very thing that has pursued me for two decades saves me from surrendering to my greatest adversary, time. The irony knocks me back a few steps, but then I remember all those times declaring that my pain was my trophy. I call that my "put up or shut up moment."

I never surrendered to the modern-day cookie-cutter, reactionary life in the way that seems to the masses like the only way. No, as it rained swords from the sky, I have figured out how to not buy the garbage they promote and deflect, redirect, and eliminate those missiles from dealing their pugnacious dominance. What did I have on my side? It was my hunger to know every possibility, not to mention the endless row of towers that sweet sound can be heard from a hundred thousand windows. 

The key was to never look outside. I indeed heard the news today, oh boy, and it wasn't good. Then again, it never is, is it? Why look? They only want to tell you what to think, how to feel, and who you are. I know better. I do this at my pace, my way. I will be the one to decide where in the game I really am. Period.