Stavros Flatley on Britain's Got Talent
oh my god, i love the kid! and the dad! i LOVE them!
and i think Britain has much better talent than America
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
A San Jacinto Dinner...or The Life and Times of Diosdado the Duck
“It’s okay to be a thief if it means a good meal,” declared my Tía Rosa, my mom’s 66-year old former cook and nanny, as she dumped a bag of freshly picked “stolen” pea pods from the neighbor’s field, onto the table.
“Start shelling, and stop fussing! Think of them as community peas.”
As I plucked out a juicy green worm that had evidently gone to town on one of my contraband peas, I thought about how far I had come. Ten years ago, I reigned as the annoyingly obsessive backseat-driver of my mom’s kitchen. I was a prima donna, insisting that my poor mother meticulously shave away anything that was not uniformly glossy and pink from my boneless, skinless, Man-in-the-Gray-Flannel-Suit chicken breast. I was a culinary pill, even more of a killjoy than your average pea worm.
I have since learned the error of my BSCB ways. What better way to bid adieu to that fastidious little girl than to accept an invitation to go visit my Tía Rosa in San Jacinto, Peru, where the peas are stolen and dinner clucks around in the backyard.
I was shelling peas for arroz con pato (less glamorously, rice with duck). My duck, Diosdado, continued aloofly wandering around the back yard. He was nice and fat, living off of Peruvian choclo and the occasional bit of leftovers for the past several months. I stood in the doorway of the duck corral like a dopey tourist with my “machine” (digital camera) while my Tía Rosa matter-of-factly grabbed the now spastic Diosdado by the wings and walked over to the rock pile, like an exhausted mom dragging along her hyperactive child, where he was about to have his head sawed off in the name of good, farm-fresh cuisine.
Having suffered emotional trauma at the hands of The Jungle when I was 12, the demise of Diosdado was relatively tame in comparison. Several hot water baths, a thorough de-feathering, and one evisceration later, the now many parts of Diosdado lay ready and waiting to be greedily consumed by a formerly stalwart “anti-bones” gringa.
My previous experiences with arroz con pato or its cousin, arroz con pollo, were as numerous and varied as the love affairs in a telenovela. It’s a fairly simple dish, but anyone who has attempted to bring a little piece of Peru to the table and instead ended up with a dry bird or rice that could double as a skin exfoliant knows that, if done improperly, it can be largely underwhelming.
“Why do you want to take a bath with the rice?” my Tía asked curiously.
“Nevermind. I just wanted to know how you can be sure that Arroz con Diosdado will turn out alright”
“Because Rosa Espino is in the kitchen!” she proclaimed, letting out the same crazy-old-lady cackle that I had heard earlier in the day when we were watching dubbed Bonanza re-runs. A cow with big udders wandered onto the scene, provoking the exclamation “Look at the tits on that cow!” immediately followed by an Espino cackle. She was right on both accounts. The cow’s tits were big, and the woman did know her away around the kitchen. I stood back and watched her effortless toss handfuls of ingredients into the pot: fried garlic and onions, the aromatic base of all Peruvian cooking; cumin, to temper the strong flavor of Diosdado (but never his spirit!); sweet peppers. Finally, she mixed in a heaping measure of cilantro, freshly ground that morning using two large stones, to give the rice its characteristic green color. Measuring devices never entered the equation, a great change from my kitchen experience, which consisted of anal-retentively leveling off measuring cups with a butter knife until I was left with a surface that doubled as a Zen garden, the kind of perfect images that probably flash behind Martha Stewart’s eyelids before she drifts off to sleep each night.
Rosa’s insistent throat-clearing interrupted my moment of personal reflection. “I’m about to show you my secret.”
That’s when I learned that, like many things in life, arroz con pato is largely improved by beer – a rich, dark, ale working diligently to simultaneously tenderize and intoxicate Diosdado. He had not died in vain, and at this moment, he probably smelled better than he ever had during his entire duckin’ life. After his beer bath, Diosdado was removed from the pot and allowed to rest, reveling in his profound drunkenness.
Rice-tacklin’ time. Before I even finished spitting out my question about rice to water ratios, Rosa was done “measuring.” I looked over to see a large wooden spoon standing upright on a bed of rice. “That’s how you know it won’t turn out hard,” she said.
“That’s it?” I prompted incredulously, assuming there was more to the story. But, that was it. After the rice mixture cooked down, we reintroduced Diosdado and finally gave the stolen peas a purpose, along with some previously cooked carrots. We covered the pot (because I’m no voyeur) and allowed the flavors to consummate. Several minutes later, a meal is born.
We’re ready to plate, and really, the timing could not be any better. Rosa’s favorite Brazilian (read – “crazier than normal”) telenovela is about to start. Of course, I mocked it at first, but now I find myself deeply involved in the torrid love fiasco that is Sofia and Rafael. It’s so obvious that they should just run away together like Rafael suggested three episodes ago. Until then, Christina will never leave them alone. Hell, she tried to drug Rafael on Tuesday! I’ll admit she may be more attractive physically, but…
“Hey! How’s my duck gringa?”
The duck. The duck was wonderful. All the flavors of the cumin, cilantro, sweet peppers, and beer had impregnated the sweet, dark, succulent meat. Using a knife to pry the meat off the bone was impossible. First of all, my Tía Rosa doesn’t own any table knives. But more importantly, using a knife to eat Diosdado seemed criminal, sadly cheapening the experience.
“We’re in the chakra – no shame in using your hands,” Rosa wisely advised.
Nibbling every bit of meat off of the bone was ultimately much more respectful and gratifying – a sincere, animalistic appreciation of the days hunt with absolutely nothing wasted. Each morsel of duck was followed by a forkful of refreshing, cilantro-infused rice. The carrots imparted their earthy sweetness. The peas smacked of mischief, a flavor I’m finding increasingly irresistible.
“Start shelling, and stop fussing! Think of them as community peas.”
As I plucked out a juicy green worm that had evidently gone to town on one of my contraband peas, I thought about how far I had come. Ten years ago, I reigned as the annoyingly obsessive backseat-driver of my mom’s kitchen. I was a prima donna, insisting that my poor mother meticulously shave away anything that was not uniformly glossy and pink from my boneless, skinless, Man-in-the-Gray-Flannel-Suit chicken breast. I was a culinary pill, even more of a killjoy than your average pea worm.
I have since learned the error of my BSCB ways. What better way to bid adieu to that fastidious little girl than to accept an invitation to go visit my Tía Rosa in San Jacinto, Peru, where the peas are stolen and dinner clucks around in the backyard.
I was shelling peas for arroz con pato (less glamorously, rice with duck). My duck, Diosdado, continued aloofly wandering around the back yard. He was nice and fat, living off of Peruvian choclo and the occasional bit of leftovers for the past several months. I stood in the doorway of the duck corral like a dopey tourist with my “machine” (digital camera) while my Tía Rosa matter-of-factly grabbed the now spastic Diosdado by the wings and walked over to the rock pile, like an exhausted mom dragging along her hyperactive child, where he was about to have his head sawed off in the name of good, farm-fresh cuisine.
Having suffered emotional trauma at the hands of The Jungle when I was 12, the demise of Diosdado was relatively tame in comparison. Several hot water baths, a thorough de-feathering, and one evisceration later, the now many parts of Diosdado lay ready and waiting to be greedily consumed by a formerly stalwart “anti-bones” gringa.
My previous experiences with arroz con pato or its cousin, arroz con pollo, were as numerous and varied as the love affairs in a telenovela. It’s a fairly simple dish, but anyone who has attempted to bring a little piece of Peru to the table and instead ended up with a dry bird or rice that could double as a skin exfoliant knows that, if done improperly, it can be largely underwhelming.
“Why do you want to take a bath with the rice?” my Tía asked curiously.
“Nevermind. I just wanted to know how you can be sure that Arroz con Diosdado will turn out alright”
“Because Rosa Espino is in the kitchen!” she proclaimed, letting out the same crazy-old-lady cackle that I had heard earlier in the day when we were watching dubbed Bonanza re-runs. A cow with big udders wandered onto the scene, provoking the exclamation “Look at the tits on that cow!” immediately followed by an Espino cackle. She was right on both accounts. The cow’s tits were big, and the woman did know her away around the kitchen. I stood back and watched her effortless toss handfuls of ingredients into the pot: fried garlic and onions, the aromatic base of all Peruvian cooking; cumin, to temper the strong flavor of Diosdado (but never his spirit!); sweet peppers. Finally, she mixed in a heaping measure of cilantro, freshly ground that morning using two large stones, to give the rice its characteristic green color. Measuring devices never entered the equation, a great change from my kitchen experience, which consisted of anal-retentively leveling off measuring cups with a butter knife until I was left with a surface that doubled as a Zen garden, the kind of perfect images that probably flash behind Martha Stewart’s eyelids before she drifts off to sleep each night.
Rosa’s insistent throat-clearing interrupted my moment of personal reflection. “I’m about to show you my secret.”
That’s when I learned that, like many things in life, arroz con pato is largely improved by beer – a rich, dark, ale working diligently to simultaneously tenderize and intoxicate Diosdado. He had not died in vain, and at this moment, he probably smelled better than he ever had during his entire duckin’ life. After his beer bath, Diosdado was removed from the pot and allowed to rest, reveling in his profound drunkenness.
Rice-tacklin’ time. Before I even finished spitting out my question about rice to water ratios, Rosa was done “measuring.” I looked over to see a large wooden spoon standing upright on a bed of rice. “That’s how you know it won’t turn out hard,” she said.
“That’s it?” I prompted incredulously, assuming there was more to the story. But, that was it. After the rice mixture cooked down, we reintroduced Diosdado and finally gave the stolen peas a purpose, along with some previously cooked carrots. We covered the pot (because I’m no voyeur) and allowed the flavors to consummate. Several minutes later, a meal is born.
We’re ready to plate, and really, the timing could not be any better. Rosa’s favorite Brazilian (read – “crazier than normal”) telenovela is about to start. Of course, I mocked it at first, but now I find myself deeply involved in the torrid love fiasco that is Sofia and Rafael. It’s so obvious that they should just run away together like Rafael suggested three episodes ago. Until then, Christina will never leave them alone. Hell, she tried to drug Rafael on Tuesday! I’ll admit she may be more attractive physically, but…
“Hey! How’s my duck gringa?”
The duck. The duck was wonderful. All the flavors of the cumin, cilantro, sweet peppers, and beer had impregnated the sweet, dark, succulent meat. Using a knife to pry the meat off the bone was impossible. First of all, my Tía Rosa doesn’t own any table knives. But more importantly, using a knife to eat Diosdado seemed criminal, sadly cheapening the experience.
“We’re in the chakra – no shame in using your hands,” Rosa wisely advised.
Nibbling every bit of meat off of the bone was ultimately much more respectful and gratifying – a sincere, animalistic appreciation of the days hunt with absolutely nothing wasted. Each morsel of duck was followed by a forkful of refreshing, cilantro-infused rice. The carrots imparted their earthy sweetness. The peas smacked of mischief, a flavor I’m finding increasingly irresistible.
Ok...so many things to respond to...
1. Amazing Race. Yes. Why am I not 21. I will be soon. Then we will apply - the application is ridiculous - I bet we could come up with some amazing answers.
2. OMG great youtube clip. I think I have a crush on a younger man now - talk about bedroom eyes. Also...don't tell Henrik, but Danish people make me giggle (in a good way)...in a STEEN JORGENSON SORT OF SORT SOL WAY. Also if you have a baby you must name it Lars or Knud. I really want to visit and run around Copenhagen with you. AND that is one of my favorite Bowie songs because it is deliciously triumphant and ultra glam and sorta gay but I like gay...there is a techno version that I like too...Calder and I would put it on full blast and drive around the lake and like shoot sparklers out the window, lol. It is by David Guetta - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yy4N36xgIjE
3. I loved and very much appreciated your drunk facebook message. It is something that should transpire often. My absence from the blog is sad and unnecessary. I am going to post a little piece I wrote in another blogpost. You can tell me what you think - it's just a little somethin somethin.
2. OMG great youtube clip. I think I have a crush on a younger man now - talk about bedroom eyes. Also...don't tell Henrik, but Danish people make me giggle (in a good way)...in a STEEN JORGENSON SORT OF SORT SOL WAY. Also if you have a baby you must name it Lars or Knud. I really want to visit and run around Copenhagen with you. AND that is one of my favorite Bowie songs because it is deliciously triumphant and ultra glam and sorta gay but I like gay...there is a techno version that I like too...Calder and I would put it on full blast and drive around the lake and like shoot sparklers out the window, lol. It is by David Guetta - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yy4N36xgIjE
3. I loved and very much appreciated your drunk facebook message. It is something that should transpire often. My absence from the blog is sad and unnecessary. I am going to post a little piece I wrote in another blogpost. You can tell me what you think - it's just a little somethin somethin.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
something silly from Denmark
i just had to share because it's one of my favorite songs and you will at least appreciate the cuteness of this
i don't know if there's a similar show in the US, but here at the moment there's a show going called "Allstars", which is basically a handful of famous danish musicians who assemble a random choir and compete for charity. anyway, this is Steen Jørgensen's (from Sort Sol) mostly-male choir from Christianshavn, Copenhagen (represent) doing Bowie.
sidenote: the kid singing is ridiculously adorable, his name is Tobias and he's 16.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZpSyQcjOck
i don't know if there's a similar show in the US, but here at the moment there's a show going called "Allstars", which is basically a handful of famous danish musicians who assemble a random choir and compete for charity. anyway, this is Steen Jørgensen's (from Sort Sol) mostly-male choir from Christianshavn, Copenhagen (represent) doing Bowie.
sidenote: the kid singing is ridiculously adorable, his name is Tobias and he's 16.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gZpSyQcjOck
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
don't mind me
i'm just fucking around. you can change it all back if you want.
also, i don't think either of us want to do this task. and actually, calling them tasks is kind of daunting, like they are assignments. so i think we should just free-write until we get some more coherent ideas.
that is all.
tell me what you're thinking.
also, i don't think either of us want to do this task. and actually, calling them tasks is kind of daunting, like they are assignments. so i think we should just free-write until we get some more coherent ideas.
that is all.
tell me what you're thinking.
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