Turn and Burn the Defender and Hit a Solid Cross Out to the Far Stick

Science is melting my brain this afternoon, as it often does when I'm on the cusp of finally figuring out a long-term problem. So yay for that, but a body needs occasional breaks to churn out words that are not related to the adoption of projectile point design canons over large geographic spaces 2500 years ago.

My favorite uncle has gone on some super-cleansy diet ordered by his endocrinologist, or something, and for four more weeks must eschew caffeine, alcohol, pork (a Muslin endocrinologist? I do not know), grains, salt, black pepper (whuh??), sugar, nuts, and anything refined or otherwise flavorful. I would have to be thisclose to death for that to sound like a good option. What's that you say? I need to eat unseasoned steamed kale and chicken for the next month? And drink herbal tea? Do you have any unprocessed, gluten-free bullets I might be able to eat? Because that sounds seriously fucking intolerable. He's lost 16 pounds in two weeks, which wouldn't hurt me one bit, except that the daily rage index would probably push my blood pressure into such dangerously high elevations as to outweigh the health benefits of swearing off chocolate chips, coffee, and hoppy hoppy IPAs.

Here's something happier than that:



And with the Megan Rapinoe Song playing in my head nonstop, it's back to the science.

Tomorrow We Are All Reagan Republicans

Never let it be said that I do not have an open mind. Twenty-seven years ago, Ronald Reagan did something completely awesome and wonderful, establishing a legacy that has been handed down in successive years to all Americans regardless of party, color, or creed.

President Ronald Reagan proclaimed July to be National Ice Cream Month and the third Sunday of July to be National Ice Cream Day in 1984.

Kickass, St. Ronnie. Kickass.

Soccer Prep Guide

Welcome, soccer fans and "abby wambach girlfriend" and "abby wambach boyfriend" googlers. The World Cup starts on Saturday, and you still have a few things you need to do in preparation.

1. The absolute number one requirement is to zip over to The Equalizer and buy the WWC preview they put together with All White Kit. At 82 lovely searchable PDF pages, it's a bargain at 5.95. Both sites are daily must-reads even when the Cup isn't just around the corner, particularly if a big portion of your regular entertainment intake comes from following the trainwreck that is magicJack.

2. Next, march down to your local purveyor of fermented beverages and plead for some Four Peaks Hop Knot IPA. This might be easier if you live in Arizona. Yes, Arizona. Hop Knot is one of the things that makes life in the state of John "Illegals are Pyros" McCain not only tolerable, but downright magical at times. Lay in a stock; it only comes in 12-packs of cans.

3. Got a spare couple of minutes? Go read about brilliant England manager Hope Powell.

4. Lay in the bacon, eggs, and potatoes. Live games in Germany mean breakfast start times here in the Pacific Time Zone. Suggested opening game breakfast bakey thing:

Rinse three or four leeks and thinly slice the white and pale green parts. Caramelize these in a pan with a healthy pinch of salt, deglazing the pan from time to time with broth. While the leeks are cooking, simmer a cup of broth with a bit of garlic and rosemary. Thinly slice some potatoes into rounds. Layer the potatoes in a baking pan with the leeks and some sliced cheese (gruyere is lovely), topping each layer with a sprinkle of salt and a few grinds of pepper. Add sliced ham to each layer if you're a meat person. Strain the broth and pour enough over to make it a bit soupy on the bottom. Beat a couple of eggs with a touch of milk, salt, and pepper, and pour over. Top with one more layer of potatoes and cheese. Cover and bake at 375 for 45 minutes or so, then uncover and bake long enough to brown up the cheese. Remove from oven and let rest a bit, then shovel it out onto plates and NOM.

5. Ali Krieger. 'Nuff said.

Gone Fishin'

I am in Seattle for the week, getting the boy settled in to his new college home. There is so much goddamn good food here I could weep--but I can't stop eating long enough to sniffle, so there you go.

Posting will resume somewhere around the 20th, although the odd food photo might show up from time to time.




















Takoyaki from Wann-Izakaya. Holy shit.

Never Mind Who Dat, What the Fuck Dat?

Damn, what a call--opening the second half with an onside kick? The Saints converted that bit of ballsiness into a touchdown, grabbed the momentum, and 30 minutes and several clutch plays later, grabbed the Lombardi Trophy. And, as my friend India pointed out, felt no need for Jesus shout-outs in the postgame interviews.

That was the good. The bad? The breathtaking misogyny in the commercials. Forget Tim Tebow and his mom; against the baseline set by GoDaddy.com, FloTV, and Bridgestone, Focus on the Family rated a giant meh. What knocked the Tebows completely off my radar? Oh look, here's Danica Patrick abandoning her last shred of dignity and getting into a strip-off, with the promise of additional unrated web content. Ah, here's Jim Nance saying that a guy who goes shopping with his girlfriend has lost his spine! Oh, here's a guy who gets conceived, grows up, gets a job, gets married, and sires a kid of his own--whew, he deserves a break after all that! And here's a guy who abandons his wife to a Road Warrior gang rather than give up his tires! Oh, look, men strike back! Because they're been so grievously put upon for the past couple of decades out of the last 160,000 years of anatomically modern human history!

Fuck. Oh, want to see them? Here.

In happier news, chocolate Chex + rice Chex + chocolate Cheerios + pretzel sticks + mini marshmallows + mini chocolate chips + butter + vanilla + NUTELLA = OMFG awesome snackies. Also, roasting thinly sliced cauliflower with olive oil, garlic, and rosemary results in some stunning crunchy/tender bits of FUCK YES CAULIFLOWER IS GOOD. Who knew? My mom always boiled it to death. I would have eaten a lot more of it without complaining if she'd roasted it instead.

Food, Football, Fighting Nausea: The New Sunday Routine is 67% Good

I learned an important lesson on Friday morning, at the horrid hour of 7 in the morning--not horrid on its face, but in the context of "at the gym," 7 sucks hard--and that would be that a month of zero physical activity means that Workout #1 is going to be near-lethal. I made it through half an hour of lunges, presses, crunches, and leg curls before collapsing onto the floor in a cold clammy puddle of defeated-person-trying-to-stay-conscious-and-not-puke.

A complicated cold clammy puddle, to be sure.

Thank god the trainer was a good sport about the whole thing, even running downstairs to fetch me a cup of Powerade on ice, and the other middle-aged old farts in the weight room wandered over to look down at me and cluck sympathetically. The rest of Friday and Saturday were devoted to trying to think about anything but the workout in order to avoid the resulting wave of nausea and cold sweat that accompanied the flashbacks. It was really a great experience.

Anyway. Today only brought a mild headache and queasy stomach--amateur shit at this point in the game--so the boy and I headed out on an expedition to find breakfast. Since our previous pacts to Do Something Together have fizzled due to uncooperative fish and inclement weather, we settled on keeping the adventure-seeking focused on new places to eat. This morning we hit on Shot in the Dark Cafe, located on Broadway just east of 6th in downtown Tucson. It's a typical downtown space, brick walls and exposed ceiling beams in a building that probably dates to the 1930s at the latest, soothingly worn down around the edges, mismatched sofas by the front window, flies circling languidly but never quite to the point of annoyance. I had something called the Cornucopia, which involves three eggs making intimate friends with several different vegetables while snuggling up against a pile of seasoned homefries and toast. Quite delightful. The boy got a bagel with smoked salmon, which is thoughtfully served with separate ramekins of cream cheese and capers, as well as thinly sliced tomatoes and onions and a lemon wedge. He inhaled it in roughly 45 seconds, so I assume it tasted good. The coffee is quality, and the Italian sodas are served in giant Imperial pint mugs. I would go back. It is homey, the people are friendly, and the menu is promising, so you should probably go too.

The rest of the day was spent watching football and listening to Fox color man Brian Billick offer new twists on the English language such as "put an explanation point on it." Tomorrow, back to the gym. What, me quit? Who do you think I am, Abdullah Abdullah or something?

Do You Need Another Reason to Love Bao?

Not that you really do need another reason to love steamed buns, but if you do, here are three: (1) they dance, (2) they bust wicked nunchuk moves, and (3) they are adorable when they do it.

Dragon Fist from sun haipeng on Vimeo.

(via Serious Eats)

Dinner for the Morose

Some very important food blogs found while puttering around the various Top Chef recaps from last night:

Fancy Fast Food offers step-by-step directions (with pictures!) for remastering fast food standbys into classic cuisine standbys, more or less.


Le Chicken McConfit, anyone?

Also, Insanewiches for inspiring photos but, regrettably, no recipes.

Solve it, eat it, whatever.

Top Chef notes from BoltLand are limited for the moment to (1) "a hot temper" and "procrastination" may be character flaws, but they are not vices; (2) all those chefs went with "heavy drinking" as their vice of choice to build a dish around since "black tar heroin" probably doesn't really bring out the flavor of scallops so well; (3) Michael I. apparently is confused and thinks he's in Gordon Ramsay's stable of douchetastically misogynistic contestants over at Hell's Kitchen rather than on Top Chef; (4) bacon doughnuts; and (5) BACON FUCKING DOUGHNUTS. WITH BEER CHOCOLATE SAUCE.

Note on Top Chef Masters, which finished up last night: please please please do this again next summer, Bravo. You don't even have to make it a competition--it was hugely satisfying to watch a group of very talented chefs get together every week and (with the exception of Michael Chiarello toward the end, and that Ludo guy) so clearly enjoy each others' company as they cooked and shared their experience with unfailing humor and grace. Just call it Top Chef Masters Cook and Drink and Shoot the Shit and I will watch that every week, maybe twice.

Boltgrilling

It is still hotter than fuck in Tucson, but once the sun dips below the neighbor's hated salt cedars (wretched trees, but hey, they're shady), it's just barely tolerably not too hot to fire up the Char-Griller. The Char-Griller is one of the finest pieces of equipment ever invented and certainly the best thing to come out of Georgia since Jimmy Carter's post-presidential reinvention of self.












Smoke, fire, nom.

The conundrum this grill has posed for me in the 11 months I've owned it is how to efficiently exploit its, well, killer efficiency. Do up a couple steaks and a pile of chicken and a bushel of vegetables, close it up, and the damn thing is still registering at 250 a couple of hours later. Letting all those beautiful coals go to waste feels shameful. I've gotten over it in the past by wrapping up a roast in foil and setting it on the grate for a few hours, which works nicely, but tonight I found something more immediately satisfying, lack of leftovers be damned: fruit! Hot fruit! Hot grilled with just enough butter to keep it from sticking and just enough brown sugar to make it gooey fruit!

Forthwith, Boltgirl's Hot Hot Hot Fruit on Fire:

Make sure your coals are glowing at about 300-325 degrees. Locate some medium-ripe but reasonably firm bananas or peaches, preferably both. Slice in half, lengthwise for the bananas and however makes sense for the peaches. I used Saturn peaches, the little flat ones, and sliced them horizontally. Ditch the pits and banana peels, BTW. Lightly brush the cut sides with soft butter and sprinkle with brown sugar, and mush around to make a goo. Spray the grill grates with nonstick spray stuff and set the fruit on, butter-goo cut side up, and close the lid. After two minutes, flip the fruit to butter-goo side down, close the lid again, and grill two more minutes. Remove with a spatula, since the bananas will be soft, and chop and drop over vanilla ice cream.

The ice cream part is pure fantasy at this point, since I didn't have any on hand tonight, but it would have been nice. A touch of cinnamon or cardomom mixed with the sugar and butter would also be good, or maybe cayenne if you want to get all Southwesty on me.

The Best Memories Are the Ones You Can Eat

Two weeks removed from eating a swath through the Pacific Northwest, we broke out the Pike Place Market Cookbook and tromped over to 17th Street to shop and cracked our knuckles and whipped up a batch of the crab cakes we swooned over at Pike Brewing way back on July 3.

Crab cakes with chili-coconut sauce and baby greens.

We arranged the cakes artfully over the sauce. We tucked a tuft of greens to one side. We cut, we held our breath, we bit...

FUCK YEAH. Nailed it.

Next time, cilantro instead of the prescribed flat-leaf parsley, and more coconut milk. Because that just might be even better than the originals, which are pretty damn good.

And the only thing better than the shared experience of the original chompfest at Pike is being able to recreate that shared experience after the fact and finding that it comes with a new bonus layer on top: it's no longer just wow, this is amazing, but wow, this is amazing, and we made it.

I had fretted early this morning that the Northwest trip would wind up lost in the shuffle of the kid's crazy packed summer, a vague footnote somewhere in the back of his brain jumbled with volleyball, Disneyland, and hanging with his buddies. Tonight I'm pretty sure it's going to stick. He can't wait to get back in the kitchen and see what else we can do.

Top Chef Masters Tonight!

Woo hoo! I got over Carla's sad exit just in time, since my Top Chef jones gets marinated and grilled to a turn tonight with the premiere of Top Chef Masters. Hang on, let me see who my out-of-the-gate favorites are.

I think Tim Love, because he sounds nice and does a lot of charity work, and also has a classic burger joint. Also Elizabeth Falkner, because she's both out and a killer pastry chef who likes cupcakes (and she baked Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon's wedding cake!). Wylie Dufresne because he loves breakfast, and I spent the entire morning mournfully wishing for a plate of bacon and eggs. And he loved sweet Carla's green eggs and ham Quickfire dish during the last Top Chef.

Cooking shows involving challenges requiring the chefs to immediately spring into action, think on their feet, and still turn out creative, quality dishes are the best. Iron Chef America would be so much better if the chefs were actually blindsided by the secret ingredient rather than being given a list of possibilities ahead of time so they can prepare possible menus.

Potato chips, I must have potato chips when I watch Top Chef. A wretched habit I fell into during the last go-round, but so delicious. Yay!

A Sighting of the Rare and Elusive Boltgirl

It's the annual family confab in Tucson, which has left my calendar a bloody mess when viewed from a distance--gotta switch from red ink to a more soothing blue--and my blog neglected in the corner, sniffling. What can I fling at you as I sprint by the computer between rounds of cards, grilling, and backyard birdwatching fueled by high-quality merlot and shiraz?

Meat! Meaty meaty meat meat. I have been a vegetarian off and on for the past twenty years or so, but right now am definitely peaking in the meat quadrant of the graph. Costco sells lovely slabs of top round that grill to tender perfection, which you might not expect from something with "round" in the title, but damn. Damn. I like to cover one slab with a rub of equal parts brown sugar, black pepper, hot ground roasted red chili, and garlic powder, with a half part of kosher salt and let it think about it for a few hours before hitting the grill, and then do the other with simple salt and pepper. And then some lovely thick rounds of onion around the edges until they caramelize. Nom. The grill is getting a workout this week.

Economy! I'm sorry, but at this point I am utterly confused. US auto execs are getting fired by the White House on the same day banking execs are invited over for tea? Meanwhile, my friends and I are coordinating those Costco runs for days when Tucson is not being invaded by family members who gleefully pick up the tab. Recommended bargain of the week: giant clamshell pack of Cherubs grape tomatoes, $4.49. That gives you a week's worth of salads, pastas, omelettes, and lovely snacks. A little olive oil, some basil, salt, and pepper, and bam smacky, you're eating like the king of your very own tomato patch.

Gardening! I suck at it. I know people who very successfully grow tomatoes and peppers and thus avoid that portion of Costco, but I am not one of them. High and subsequently dashed hopes in the past have included tomatoes, jalapenos, anaheim chiles, squash, red bell peppers, lettuce, and snow peas. This season I stuck to herbs and have managed to keep sage and mint alive; the cilantro, to my great chagrin, collapsed and died within three days. Oh, wait--I have had marginal success with potatoes, and am currently sitting on a harvest store of four yukon golds ranging in size from small grape to golf ball with a thyroid problem.

Basketball! My brackets are dead in both men's and women's, although I still have the Heels alive for the men's championship and UConn for the well, duh category in the women's. And the Irish rolled over and died in the NIT semis. That is all.

Arizona! Our esteemed Governor Jan Brewer (R-Harpytown) appointed the illustrious and beloved-by-Shakesville Mr. Benjamin H. Grumbles as head of the state Department of Environmental Quality, which is something akin to appointing a hyena as head of kitten welfare. Grumbles is a Bush EPA hack whose major accomplishment at the EPA was being concerned about pharmaceuticals in groundwater. Well, he was actually only concerned about nitroglycerin, and then only because it's an explosive. Anti-depressants and anti-inflammatories are apparently okay because--let's be honest here--they're making you feel better, aren't they?

Baseball! Pima County wants to build another stadium in hopes that maybe they can lure like three teams back from Glendale to Save Spring Training in Tucson, which will only cost about $137 million in a state that is shuttering state parks and firing teachers as fast as it can in order to fill exactly two sandbags that can be stacked up in front of the 75-foot tsunami that is the current $3 BILLION budget deficit. But it is important to soak people with an increased sales tax so that they can build a stadium that may or may not be used for an entire month every year if the teams decide to relocate to the cotton fields of Marana before bolting to the next sweet deal being offered by a municipality someplace else. Arizona: 49th in education, 2nd in teen pregancy rates, numero uno in short-sighted stupidity.

More to come! Later!

In Hootie Hopefulness

Go Carla!



programming note: I won't actually be watching the finale until tomorrow night--stay up until 11:00? Love ya, Top Chef, but I don't think that's happening--so don't spoil it for me in comments, por favor. Hopefully Friday will be one big giant Carla lovefest on the Boltblog!

My Terrible Dark Secret

I may or may not have kind of a thing for Martha Stewart, not in a dykey way, just an awkward awestruckness at her ingenuity. I definitely have a totally dykey thing for Rachel Maddow, as you may have surmised. And I like carrot soup.

Forthwith, what it looks like when my worlds collide.

Cautiously Recommended: New Old Peking

Old Peking has been bravely dishing out Chinese food at Speedway and Tucson Boulevard since 1975, with a few blips here and there in the form of, oh, going out of business a few times and reopening and reinventing and closing again. They reopened with fanfare and plastic flags a couple of weeks ago, and on the basis of three dishes we can say, what the hell, give it a shot.

Unlike old Old Peking, nothing we ordered looked like it was dumped out of a freezer bag. The crab puffs (a very guilty pleasure which we do not actually feel guilty about one whit, thank you) were tiny and sparsely stuffed, but we got seven instead of the advertised six, and they appeared to have been quickly fried in nice hot oil, and so weren't greasy. The sauce served with them was an unfortunate amalgamation of ketchup and honey, we think, which was maybe not the best choice, but it wasn't half bad and didn't kill us. Sesame beef on the menu equates to a mountain of sesame beef and only sesame beef--not a vegetable to be seen--on the plate, which pleased my carnivorous son to no end. Simple, hot, savory, just a tad sweet, very very very tasty. My Szechuan tofu featured nine kinds of fresh vegetables cut into pleasingly large chunks and, shockingly, not cooked to a homogenous goo! Hooray for new Old Peking! The big triangles of tofu were pleasingly firm; the sauce had a nip to it and, stunningly, did not include worrisome pools of oil floating on top! Unlike old Old Peking!

We got out for under seventeen bucks and had leftovers for one boy meal and two me meals.

Note: if you are the only people in the restaurant, the very friendly waitress will strike up a conversation that will last through most of your meal. Given the economic climate and old Old Peking's last-resort reputation, she is understandably anxious about people (1) realizing they're open again and (2) liking the food enough to come back. She quizzed us on how long we'd lived in Tucson, how often we'd come to the previous incarnation of the restaurant, how we knew they had re-opened, whether three in the afternoon was an odd time for us to be eating, how we thought the food compared to the old version, can you be more specific please, and how we liked the flyers they had just had printed up and if we would make any changes on said flyers to make people more likely to come in. But somehow it wasn't nearly as annoying as it sounds.

10% off through the end of 2008, with killer lunch specials every day and the threat of live Clavinova music weekend nights. Go lonely and hungry, leave feeling full and loved.

The Bright Spot

So Thanksgiving dinner with aging right-wing relatives maybe wasn't the most affirming experience ever, but my contribution to the food side of things worked out very nicely, so you all should make it for your next dinner. Especially if it's cold outside, or at least what passes for cold in Tucson.

Butternut-Sweet Potato Mash

1 good-sized butternut squash, halved, seeds scooped out
1 large garnet yam or sweet potato

Oil the cut sides of the squash, place cut side down in a rimmed baking dish, wrap yam in foil and toss on top, bake all at 400 for about an hour or until nice and soft. Squash should be deep orange and squish at the slightest touch.

Scoop squash into a large bowl. Peel yam and dump in with squash. Add a small can (tuna-sized, 8 oz?) of crushed pineapple with juice. Add ~1/2 t minced fresh ginger, a splash of orange juice, a little glop of butter, and a touch of salt. Mash with a masher or fork to desired squishiness. Let it sit for a while to give the flavors a chance to hang out and develop a relationship, especially the ginger; overnight--as with many things--is best. Heat to piping hot before serving, sprinkle your favorite toasted nuts over the top, and nom nom nom.

Eggs for a Sad World

After 48 hours of an eye-popping headache, during which I mainlined Excedrin, Advil, and Irish Breakfast tea every couple of hours just to remain functional, food did not sound at all good. Watching Notre Dame-Michigan State did not help in the slightest. However, this worked pretty well and left me wishing I'd made more:

Saute in a bit of hot oil until onions are soft:
1 clove of garlic, more or less, crushed
2 slabs of sweet onion, chopped

Add:
1 Roma tomato, chopped
2 cups fresh spinach, chopped
4-5 basil leaves, finely slivered

Cook over medium heat until spinach is wilty and most of the liquid from the tomatoes has cooked off.

Scramble two eggs in a bowl with salt and pepper and dump over vegetables in skillet. Cook, tossing around a little, until eggs are almost set. Add a sprinkle of mozzarella and flop around until cheese is melted and eggs are set to your liking.

Flip onto a plate with a triumphant flourish and nom nom nom.

If It's Friday, It Must Be a Hodgepodge

Uno. Hey, the men's U23 soccer team acquitted themselves very nicely against Japan yesterday, coming away 1-0 winners in a match they really dominated more than the score indicates. Maurice Edu, Marvell Wynne, and Robbie Rogers particularly impressed me--Edu and Wynne with their solid defensive play and Rogers with his elegant footwork and ball distribution. The team as a whole looked pretty sharp, although Michael Bradley didn't have his best match and Freddie Adu needs to look up for open teammates now and again rather than consistently dribbling into pressure until he loses the ball. Oh, and Sacha Kljestan, this is not Argentina. Please cut your hair. Or at least wash it.

Dos. See, it's not just me.

Love is too weak a word to describe how some people feel about Rachel Maddow. They lurve her, loave her, luff her. New York magazine’s online Intelligencer column recently ran an item headlined Why We’re Gay for Rachel Maddow, and the blogosphere is dotted with posts like “I’m totally gay for Rachel Maddow.” The “gay for Rachel” meme appears to transcend gender and sexuality. Women, men, straight and not straight: they’re all gay for her. In a year in which we have decided to become postracial and postgender, Maddow may embody a media in which adoring fandom is postgay.

Tres. I try to support locally owned businesses over chains when I can, but sometimes a corporate entity comes along that is simply so delicious that my slender principles are no match. Grimaldi's Pizza (work warning: musical website) is owned by somebody in the Evil Northern Empire of Scottsdale, or possibly Brooklyn--who can tell? not me--but damn. Damn, damn, damn. One of my New Yorker co-workers fussed that it's "not real New York pizza," which probably explains why it tastes so good. It is a thin crust, but its crisp body refuses to be folded, and the rich tomato sauce sings with marjoram and possibly the slightest hint of rosemary, just enough to perk up your tastebuds with a delighted oh, what is this? Even the really unforgivable move of the waitress bringing me an already-opened Stella because they were out of the Sierra Nevada IPA I'd ordered (after being told they were out of the draft Nimbus IPA and had never had Sam Adams, despite its being on the beer list) wasn't enough to make me want to firebomb the place. The pizza was that good. Oh, and it's baked in a coal-powered oven, so the carbon footprint of your meal covers vast swaths of southwestern Pennsylvania. But it is so. freaking. tasty. Chalk it up to a guilty pleasure.

Cuatro. No, I'm really not a fan of Stella Artois. Meh, Belgian Budweiser. But now I guess all Budweiser is Belgian anyway. Maybe they can consolidate their brewing and save some money.

Cinco. Cake Wrecks. Just because.

Well, This is Distressing

Not that I'm overly familiar with Bolthouse Farms, but the name is awesome enough. But no. They ponied up 100K for California's anti-marriage-equality amendment, so please eschew their products in favor of the far less awesomely named but more progressive Naked or Odwalla. Even though Odwalla kinda sucks, to be honest.

Other regrettably delicious foods to be avoided include Focus on the Family donors Chik-Fil-A and, if you're in the Chicago area, Oberweis Dairy. Both of these break my heart. Damn these fundamentalists and their delicious chicken and waffle fries! And their amazing chocolate milk sold in funky sub-rectangular glass bottles that clank together before pouring out sublime creamy chocolately goodness!

Who else has waffle fries? Do we know? Buffalo Joe's in Evanston has killer waffle fries, but that's a bit of a drive from Tucson. Mmmm... waffle fries.

Holiday, Holiday, Holiday!

Busy, busy, busy! Wrapping presents and slugging down Jameson-laden wassail leaves little time for research and quality writing, so we are lucky to have guys like Jeff from Shakesville around. In the wake of this week's kerfuffle at work, I was happy to run into his well-written summary of precisely why it doesn't make a rat's ass of a bit of difference whether you wish someone a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or Mithra-Rah-Rah-Rah at this time of year.

When someone says "Happy Holidays" to me, I take it as an expression of friendliness, a wish that I might enjoy whatever I celebrate, however I do it, and that is the wish I return when I reply "Happy Holidays" myself. Despite being a recovering Catholic who is far enough along in the process to be certifiably atheist, I still call my own celebration "Christmas" and do it up with all the trimmings and traditions from my childhood, just minus any belief in Baby Jesus. If somebody else calls it Solstice and someone else simply "Holiday," it doesn't diminish the season or insult anyone any more than does my retaining the name and trappings of Christmas without what would seem to be a pretty requisite underlying faith. For Chrissakes, it's all about kicking back with friends and family to celebrate generosity and a little bit of peace. The name slapped on the substance of the celebration is irrelevant. Besides, the fucking Puritans conservatives so love to invoke would have put us all in stocks in the town square for participating in modern American-style Christmas revelry anyway, since they thought Christmas celebrations were unbiblical and paganistic and--even worse--Papist, so don't give me that "traditional Christmas is under attack" bullshit.

Speaking of kicking back and promoting peace and Jameson-spiked hot beverages, it simply isn't Winter Holiday Time at Boltgirl's house without gallons and gallons of wassail. For your consumption:

Brew in large stockpot or cauldron:
1.5 quarts strong black tea, such as Irish Breakfast

Add:
1 gallon apple cider (unfiltered Gravenstein juice from Trader Joe's works well)
slightly more than half of a large can of frozen OJ concentrate
~2 pints cranberry juice cocktail
~2.5 pints grapefruit juice
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup water (truly spitting in a hurricane, but it's in the recipe, so...)
handful of cinnamon sticks
handful of cloves

Bring to a simmer and adjust juices to taste, simmer for hours but don't bring to a boil. Fantabulous on its own, more so with the addition of some Irish whiskey, bourbon, or rum. Keep the pot on the stove until it's gone for continuous wassailing pleasure; it won't go bad on you in just a couple of weeks.