AQUAMAN, AQUAMAN, WHEREFORE ART THOU AQUAMAN?

Well, a couple of weeks ago we made the trek, with friends, to Monterey for a de rigueur visitation to the famed Monterey Aquarium to gawk at the fishes.  Circumstances rather than good planning put us there on the Sabbath, thereby avoiding that grimmest of pitfalls. . . the dreaded crush of elementary school fieldtrips.  After ransoming King Richard to gain entry we stepped into the ebb and flow and drifted on the tide of humanity into Jellyfishland.  Now these are truly one of the strangest of God’s creatures (was she stoned or just bored on that day of creation week?)  As an inkling of things to come, the jellies, as they are referred to, are floating in tanks devoid of all else; a seemingly barely big enough space narrowed front to back so they are always center stage and pleasing to the eye of the beholder.  The walls are an innocuous “blue screen” blue so as to disappear from the scene and each tank is lit from above with a blacklight so as to make the tentacles all glowy and iridescent.  Zowie! Rather like a Pixar movie. Sadly, as I progressed along the aahs and oohs and ooze of humanity, I felt like I was getting farther and farther from the smell of tideflats and deepwater symbiosis so that by the time you finally found Nemo he was a tidy, two dimensional faux-fish, manicured and Disneyfied as if a real, multicolored fish weren’t quite good enough to dazzle and amaze. 

No surprise here but I’m kinda old school about many things and one of those things, it turns out, is aquariums (aquarii?)  I’m used to, and seem to prefer, the ones where you wander through dark, cavernous hallways that smell of damp and saltwater, peering through plate glass into dim, ocean colored realms that are big enough for the fish to catch a nap when they are tired of being photographed.  Sometimes you had to stand for a passable amount of time before you saw any signs of life at all. . . but that kind of aquarium is for frittering away the better part of an afternoon avoiding some other responsibility.  It was not something you put on your bucket list to be “done” so you could move on to the zoo or the Museum of Modern Art.  One felt like a visitor to another world rather than some yabbo who had imported a gaggle of exotics for a moment’s pleasure.  It seemed dirty and gritty and, yes, even a wee bit shabby… you know… rather like the real world.

Sometimes you go out hunting or walking or poking about and see nothing of any consequence. Doesn’t mean things aren’t out there. Just means you aren’t as important as you thought you were.  And failing to see a moose the first dozen times just makes it all the more spectacular when you do. It’s what nature does. It’s how things work.

Anyway, back to Monterey… after the clownfish and the flamingo klatch and lots of interactive and zoomie graphics bits, we stopped for a bit of an in-house gnosh. Good and a bit pricey as all in-house cafes are wont to be. (no fish on the menu I noticed…)

A quick stop to watch them feed the sea otters and then we strolled through a nice exhibit about the cannery which was the building’s previous tenant.  Interesting and informative… eleventy-gazillion fish processed every 60 seconds, 24/7 and everyone was shocked and amazed when they ran out of fish to catch…

 Then it was upstairs to the tidepools and kelp beds.  Oops, gaggles of giggling Japanese girls and piles of Dads on “got the kids” weekend. Either would be tolerable but in combination I found them a tad wearing… a quick jaunt through the gift shop to admire the hellishly expensive, handblown glass doo-dads, a couple of postal cards and out the door and off to the car.

Monterey Aquarium. Check. Been there. Done that.

IN MY FAMILY IT WAS STACKWICHES AND DEAD DOG...

In those proverbial “good ol’ days” a mom or dad, constrained by lack of time or money, would clabber together a hodge-podge of what you would eat if you had time and what you had on hand and what you thought may or may not taste good together but what the hell...  I am certain that this often resulted in gustatory horrors of near biblical proportions and gave a whole generation a phobic dread of things called Chef’s Surprise or Seafood Fiesta or anything with the words layered or short-cut in their titles. This fear also generally encompasses foodstuffs with recognizable names but with the brand name of a tinned product inserted at a clever juncture, and all casseroles comically named after inedible or unappetizing objects. True, in some instances this is the wiser course, but to cast wide your umbrella to include all such dining opportunities under one turned up nose, as it were, you run a real risk of missing treats that may well already be on the culinary endangered species list. Between energy drinks and the all too invasive MacMeadowMuffin, fetched up thru the driver’s window under jaundiced yellow arches, we have lost touch with individual inventiveness. Where are those pre-ramen noodle dabblers in the kitchen arts… those who sought the philosopher’s stone using only a fridge full of leftovers and a stopwatch?  Remember the scene in Apollo 13 where the chief engineer dumps the box of stuff on the table and says to his crew, "This is what they have to work with. Let's bring 'em back safe." Before the mass marketing of breakfast-inna-bag, if you were running late for deer hunting or some other “on the go” lifestyle choice, you just scooped and ran… breakfast, lunch or dinner held together by a starch of some kind and consumed rather like a meat ice cream cone.

Sunday morning, at breakfast, I was given the opportunity to indulge in one of those classic familial treats from days gone by.  Our friends Lovely & Michelle were here from Quincy, on their way south, and Lovely stepped up to her family home plate and hit one out of the park.  Named after one child’s choice of pronunciation for the word g-r-a-n-d-p-a, it is called The Coby (cob-ee) Sandwich.  First you have to have fluffy, cheap white bread (toasted in the oven broiler so you can make a stack of them at once…) and SPAM (also broiled to perfection.) After that it’s just a question of assembling the bread and SPAM along with a fried egg, ketchup and a generous smear of, what else, grape jelly.

At this point some of you are, no doubt, casting about for a hazelnut biscotti to cleanse your taste buds and your imagination.  But then think about it for a minute… you have toast and jelly along with breakfast meat and fried eggs… how is this any different from all those other breakfasts you’ve eaten but with the measured improvement that you don’t have to wash a plate?

And yes, I am sure you could make this with 8 grain bread and smoked salmon and egg substitute layered with stone ground chipotle chutney and organic hackberry conserves.

But wouldn’t that be like giving a beautiful woman three breast implants?  Trying, unsuccessfully, to improve on perfection…

Bon apétite

SPAM ENCHANTED EVENING...

Having already mastered Spam steaks in a port wine reduction sauce, I forged ahead deeper still into my SPAM cookbook. (and a tip of the processed meat chapeau to Traci for thinking of me when this fine literary tome came thru Quincy Thrift…)

After much perusal and indecision I settled on European Old School and made Chicken Cordon Spam served with french fries and a medley of legumes sautéed in butter.

I know, I know… you are all dying for the recipe, right?  Simple, really. You take a couple of boned and skinned chicken breasts and carefully slice a nice, deep pocket in the fat ends of each.  These caverns are then stuffed with a pan fried mixture of onions, peppers, mashed spam, fresh Thai basil and garlic pepper stirred into pepper jack & parmesan cheeses mixed with a little heavy cream.  Once the stuffing is in place fold the opening shut and flop the thin “tail” of the chicken breast up and over.  Logic dictates that you pin all these folds in place with toothpicks… use brightly colored ones and count them going in and coming out to avoid putting your eye out as it were… and let them set for a while in the fridge to firm up. 

Heat up some butter in a cast iron skillet, dust the chicken with flour, dip it into beaten egg mixed with a little salt, pepper and paprika, roll it in bread crumbs and pan fry until done.

Short of picking up an order of popcorn chicken at KFC and eating the Spam directly from the can, what could be easier?

OLD SCHOOL CHRISTMAS

Since I’ve never been one of those folks who see Jesus as a redneck, Southern Baptist, white guy from just south of Macon, Georgia but, rather, what he was… Jewish… this year we elected to celebrate the 25^th in the time honored tradition of Jews everywhere. We went out for Chinese food. 

We dined at the Golden Buddha in Soquel, a delightful and tasty dining experience completely devoid of Chinese zodiac placemats and hideous, shadowboxed, low relief landscapes done in faux mother-of-pearl.  Instead it is a veritable warren of small, low-ceiling rooms rather as one imagines exist in the back streets of Shanghai.  Lots of dark wood and bamboo accents, great service and killer food. 

Tama had Sizzling Concubine and I sampled something called Sunset Prawns… ummmm.  Sichuan/Hunan food so a little spicy, a small sampler bowl of boiled peanuts when we sat down, an appetizer of Tianjing potstickers and Tsingtao beer in the great big bottles… Happy Birthday, Jesus, indeed.

OH THE WEATHER OUTSIDE IS FRIGHTFUL... AND OTHER MUSINGS ON THE HOLIDAY...

Well, okay, not exactly frightful… yesterday we went down to Rio Del Mar beach and parked our chairs at the high water mark for a couple of hours while we sat in shorts & shirtsleeves reading and listening to the waves roll in. 

Today we braved the downtown main drag (again, sans coats…) to gawk at the locals.  Fortunately only one person Tama knew caught us at Starbutt’s using up the gift card Tama got from one of her underlings.

So far, without a doubt, the highlight of this holiday season, at least for me, was to come home today and see, on our street corner, a police officer chasing off a group of young men who had apparently been harassing our neighborhood. As is typical, they were wearing their gang “colors”… the dark slacks, white shirts and ties that all mormon missionaries sport. 

Happy birthday Jesus to one and all,

boltoonski

THE McELVIS

The other day I was casting about the kitchen for sustenance and, seeing that the larder held all the necessary ingredients, I took the plunge and whipped myself up a prototype copy of Elvis’ favorite sandwich… mashed bananas, peanut butter and bacon layered between two slices of cheap, spongy white bread and then buttered and pan fried.  Served hot, a sort of dessert, a tasty delight… thank you very much.

Yesterday we went downtown, wallowing in the holiday spirit, to see what Surf City had to offer.  Granted it was a lot more like Singing in the Rain  than Walking in a Winter Wonderland and the Barnes & Noble Bookstore where we planned to burn a hole in our holiday gift card magically transformed itself into a Borders Books but we had a rollicking good time and the lovely Tama bought me a dandy maroon snap-brim fedora for Jesus’ birthday.

Apparently that Elvis fave stuck to my mind as well as my ribs because, when we lunched late at the Surfrider Café, I threw caution to the wind and ordered their Skippyburger.  Fresh sourdough bun, hamburger, Monterey Jack cheese, bacon and peanut butter… served with shoestring fries and a pint of local beer it was a meal fit for a (the) king.

Now all I have to do is to track down someplace called The Parish Publick House which, rumor has it, serves something called The Belushi.  A burger with bleu cheese, aged Irish cheddar, American cheese, and bacon… assembled and then beer battered and deep fried.  Either that or maybe the veggie burger and a salad.

Fleas Navidad…

A TREAT COMPLETE...

So, with the aid of the plethora of weekly events newspapers, we have been poking around the Santa Cruz music scene now and then.   With some due diligence one can find good music and one can find inexpensive music.  Sadly, of course, they are seldom the same venue.  Undeterred, we soldiered on knowing that the good generally outweighed the bad and that sooner or later we would be rewarded with some extra good.

Last Sunday we got all mountainy, and headed up the hill to beautiful downtown Felton for an evening amongst the tall and stately redwoods.  We had a delightful dinner at an Italian restaurant called Casa Bella Act II… an odd little converted house on Highway 9 up by Ben Lomond (next burg up from Felton).  After eats and drinks, bellies full and the night still young, we rolled back down to Felton and an established music roadhouse called Don Quixote’s.  This is a rambling old supper club from the 50’s that has changed into a Mexican restaurant and, in the back room, remodeled to accommodate a stage & sound system; an intimate music venue.

We had gone, on the recommendation of a local musician, to hear four women performing as Honeymoon.  We got there early to guarantee good seats so we had to sit there, drowsy with too much pasta, while the opening act played with the mikes and monitor balances, got their beers and played their set… actually not bad at all… Norway Rat outta Portland.

Then, after a mercifully short pause, Honeymoon took the stage and promptly knocked our socks off and half way back to Quincy.  The back of the stage held a couple of guys playing tight, creative bass and drums but they were completely overshadowed by the four young women who fronted the band.  Between them they played two guitars, a five string banjo, twin fiddles, keyboards, and accordion. Oh, and four stellar voices.  Yeah, this is not some gal with a great voice being propped up by some harmony singing… this is four individual lead singers, well steeped in their craft, who can gracefully pass the lead back and forth while the rest layer in tight and unique harmonies giving the group the sound of a dozen strong choir.

They jumped right in with original work and an a capella crescendo and never backed off.  They performed almost exclusively their own work (and it’s easy to see why...) except for a traditional medley of Wayfaring Stranger & I’ll Fly Away, both in a minor key, which left me wondering why anyone ever bothered to write the latter in a major key.

All too soon they had finished up their encores and we had purchased their only CD offering - a four tune EP release.  If you ever you get the chance to see them, don’t pass it up.  You can check out their website at honeymoonismusic.com and hear some snippets of their EP and you can probably find them on YouTube… but I have no idea how to do that…

The only issue I have with Honeymoon is that we continue to be disappointed by anyone we have heard since… the aforementioned reward of extra good.