Quaint-O-Rama in Montmarte!

Montmarte has more quaint streets per square mile than just about anywhere on earth. The little village on the hill overlooking Paris has been a favorite of artists, actors, philosophers, writers and the folks who love to drink with them for centuries.

Topped by the imposing Sacre Couer, Montmarte offers some of the best views of Paris as well as a dizzying maze of narrow cobble stone streets that wander into open squares where you weave through an endless array of portrait artists who will gladly turn your Euros into a caricature that you will treasure all the way back to the hotel.

As you stroll through these little winding streets, and really, that’s the only way to travel these kinds of streets, its easy to both imagine what it might have been like 200 years ago, staggering up to one of the café’s to drink and talk with local intellectuals and bohemians; as well as forget that these ancient feeling streets are also part of a modern city.

We wove our way downward off of Montmarte and suddenly found ourselves in … a modern city, with traffic, grimy buildings, regular shops and noise. People were walking with purpose and direction. The spell of Montmarte, while not broken, was simply replaced.

The Angelina Drip

Angelina’s is a restaurant on the Rue de Rivoli that is famous for its hot chocolate. It also is famous for its desserts, tarts and confections including something called the Mont Blanc which resembles a cupcake with cornrows (and will send Diabetics running from the contact sugar high).

We arrived for lunch on a Saturday and the place was packed with tourists enjoying the cuisine. It is a large and elegant feeling restaurant with molded sconces and marble tables. It is easy to imagine the social set of old Paris lunching here in the glory days when the Louvre was still a palace.

Well, easy if you squint out the tourists with “J’Aime Paris” t-shirts sitting at all the tables.
But don’t squint too hard because you will miss something that is uniquely Angelina. You see, everyone who comes here does so because of the hot chocolate. It doesn’t matter what time of day, or how hot it is outside, if you come to Angelina’s then you have to get the hot chocolate.

The hot chocolate served here is served in small white pitchers along with a little ramekin of whipped cream. You then pour the chocolate into your cup and add a dollop of cream, stir until the cream is dissolved and then sip. It takes a moment to get used to the thickness of the drink, which is close to gravy in texture, American’s used to packaged Swiss Miss are going to be surprised. But the flavor is incredible and so much worth the effort of getting there.

I noticed, however, that because of the thick viscosity of the chocolate that it is virtually impossible to pour it without a thin line of the stuff running down the pure white pitcher from the lip. The chocolate is so thick that it does not even run down the full length of the pitcher, rather it makes it as far as the pitcher’s fat belly.

I was embarrassed to see this obviously messy occurrence in such an elegant surrounding, until I noticed that every other table was graced with a pitcher that had the same telltale drip. In fact, upon closer examination, my own pitcher had the ghosts of numerous such previous drips that had been washed off over the years.

The Angelina Drip is a badge of having enjoyed something truly sublime, and uniquely Parisian.

Long Island to the Rue de Rivoli

The Rue de Rivoli is the street that borders the north side of the Tuileries and the Louvre. It is lined with a long series of arches that open to a sidewalk that fronts many souvenir shops, café’s and, of course, Angelina, the restaurant famous for it’s hot chocolate.

We had gone there specifically to visit Angelina’s and bring K****’s sister a bag of the precious hot chocolate mix. We had had our lunch and purchased the mix and were just strolling along looking for postcards when we were treated to that most American of American sounds, the classic Long Island Honk of a woman calling out to her husband, “Michael…They’re Jewish in here!”
She wasn’t content with just that, as she insisted on loudly repeating her call several more times, letting all of the tourists walking the street know that the proprietors of that specific shop were in fact Jewish.

I actually suspect that Michael has long since become deaf to that particular Long Island honk tonal range, or at least he wishes that it were so.

Oh Look, it’s the Eiffel Tower…again

K**** really is very wise. She kicked me out this afternoon. She is still not feeling well and I was hanging around the room brooding and basically I think it was kind of driving her crazy, so she kicked me out.

I decided to take a loop back through the Eiffel Tower and then down along the Seine toward the Concorde. It was sunny and fresh and the walk did me a world of good.

But sitting there in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower I started wondering how the French really feel about the big old thing. I mean yes, it is very impressive and tall and attracts millions of people every year and has come to be THE symbol of Paris, worked into every type of logo and t-shirt and gee-gaw that you see in the tourist shops…but really, it is just a big fancy erector set project that is always …THERE.

You can’t really go anywhere in Paris without seeing the damned thing. You’re on the Champs-Elysees and there it is; you are at the Louvre and look, there it is over there; you’re at the freaking Laundromat and there it is peaking over the rooftops like some big awkward cousin at Christmas…nice kid, grew really fast in the last year and now he never seems to go away.

I haven’t asked any French whether it bothers them or not, mainly because my French is a bit spotty and I may end up actually telling them that their socks are adorable or something else that will cause them to give me the classic blank French stare of miscomprehension.

Suffice it to say that the thing is really big and always there. Its not like they can fold the thing up and tuck it away for winter, or just haul it out on Bastille Day or something like that. No, they have to deal with it all the time…sometimes they can dress it up with lights and such, but that’s about it.

So be a nice boy and take your cousin outside, its just too close in here for such a big boy. C’mon cousin…watch your head there.

Paris Walk

I strolled this afternoon. K**** wasn’t feeling well, and encouraged me to go see Paris. I strolled down past L’Eglise du Dome and the through the gardens behind the Invalids to the Seine where I lingered a long time at the Pont d’Alexander. Then on along the Seine toward the Tuilleries where I say and watched the sunset in one of the most comfortable metal chairs I have ever encountered.

After the sunset I wandered back through the streets of the Left Bank, cutting down narrow side streets with small specialized shops and tucked away restaurants.

I know that we will be leaving Paris soon, and I suppose I am ready to do it. My excitement about coming here has dimmed somewhat and I find the rigors of trying to make myself understood tiring. The Parisiens that I have encountered have all been pleasant and helpful and very tolerant of my fractured attempts at conversation, but beyond the most rudimentary phrases, I am woefully ill-equipped to carry on any type of substantial exchange.

I think that I was caught up in the magic of my first visit to Paris 22 years ago, and have lived on that memory ever since. My imagination took me on long romantic walks along the Seine, afternoons spent sipping café in small bistros watching the people pass by.

But the reality of my return is now tempered with my own 22 years of experience which colors my view so that it tamps down to muted tones. I see it as a city now, beautiful yes, but still just a place where many people live their lives, conduct their business, drive, shout, laugh, talk, eat and play…and then fall into bed to rest until they get up to do it again.

There is no magic spell here, save in the eyes of romantic young men far from home. I do see ghosts of the young man I was. He is there standing at the Seine eyes wide before the fountain; there sipping wine at the corner bistro; there strolling in the bustling streets; there in the galleries of the Louvre. He has a smile that he is unaware of, glistening eyes and breath that is taken away.

He is a lucky young man and I envy him his birth of a dream.

Statues are Bored

I noticed something today as I walked around Paris. Statues are, for the most part, bored. Not boring, as their beauty and the skill needed to create them is clearly evident, rather, if you look at their faces you see that they are exquisitely bored.

Their eyes are almost always dull and flat, and sit in a face that is the picture of bland ennui. It makes sense really because what has a statue to do to keep it entertained? After the first several thousand people walk by and point a camera at it, or the millionth gallon of water cascades off of it there just isn’t that much to do.

You sit or stand in some odd pose and then you…um, sit and stand in some odd pose some more. Even Rodin’s Lovers must really be getting tired of kissing each other. I can imagine them thinking, “Boy, it sure would be nice to put on some cloths and go get a ham and cheese sandwich”.

Is Existentialism Catching?

I just spent some time sitting and sipping café in a little café around the corner from our hotel. K**** is really not feeling well and needed to sleep, so I figured that I would just go and give her some peace. Besides our room is much too small to simply hang out in.

As I sipped the café and was bathed in the Gauloise smoke and deep musings of the old Frenchmen sitting at the table next to me, I started to scribble thoughts in my journal. I was pensive and probably a bit disappointed that our health and various other things have limited our stay here in Paris. We will still do as many of the things that we had intended, but not nearly what we had hoped.

So sitting there, letting the busy street and café wash through me, my thoughts wove through a random stream of personal insights and reflections. I ignored the cliché that this presented, of the solitary American, trying to scribble deep thoughts in a Paris café…and instead just let the thoughts flow as they should.

I will not share (or bore you with) these reflections, aside to say that there is real truth to the cliché. Sitting in a little Paris café sipping espresso,  one can easily slip into a pensive mood, especially when surrounded by the leisurely French.

But as for the deep thoughts, well, they come in their own way I suppose.

So excuse me, I think that I need to go buy a beret now.

First Day in Paris: Metro to the Hotel

We arrived in the afternoon after the 4 hour train ride from Amsterdam. The train was comfortable and peaceful, but that ended the moment we arrived. Gare de Nord was packed and crazy with travelers and commuters alike.  We hurried through the crowds first to the ticket machine to purchase Metro tickets, which didn’t work as the machine only seemed to accept French credit and atm cards. So, I had to dive right into using my very rusty French with a ticket agent. He seemed to understand my request and we now have two Metro passes for our time here.

The next challenge was to get to the correct Metro stop. I had already plotted out our route and, at least on paper, it seemed easy.

Don’t you love how paper can do that?

But what paper doesn’t tell you is that it is necessary to walk a long ways through crowds of rush hour Parisians, dragging suitcases and trying to interpret the multitude of directional signs within the huge Gare du Nord train station.

Of course, then we got to the platform for the first train and it was easy from there on out…except if you count the 942 flights of stairs we had to climb or descend to get to the actual platform.

But we made it to the first train, and after swiftly discovering that we were headed in the wrong direction, and making the ever-so-easy switch to the correct platform (leave train, go down two flights of stairs, up two other flights…with suitcases in tow) we settled into the correct train and were on our way.

To the transfer station where we had to get off, and hike through 765 more stairwells, up and down until we reached our correct train.

We made it on and settled in for the long ride to the stop near our hotel.

Now, Parisians are renown for a certain style, a certain je ne sais quoi? A certain flair. And it was evident on the train. The people, even coming home from work on a train all had a look and style that seemed almost second nature.

I suspected that my current state of profusely sweating, bedraggled, slightly wild-eyed determination fit right in.

That must have been why they gave me so much room on the train.

Leaving Amsterdam

We’re on the train to Paris and we are a little sad about leaving Amsterdam. Funny that we should be missing a place where so many things went wrong, the weather, the hospital, never seeing E***, the rail strike stranding us for another day…you’d think that we would be glad to be rid of the place, but K**** told me this morning that she could live here for a year.., .and I could see why.

The city is beautiful and interesting with many parts that we didn’t get to see, or only saw fleetingly through a tram or canal bus window. Each canal bridge we crossed provided a sublime view of peaceful water, trees, boats and bikes…always the bikes.

While the city is busy, with people always riding their black and white bikes somewhere, there is not the hurried and frantic feel that we feel back home. The shopkeepers, waiters and tour guides we met were all friendly, helpful and patient. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that they know that so few people speak Dutch., or perhaps it is just that they are more relaxed and less focused on money and status and wealth.

Perhaps I am romanticizing them because I am on vacation and relaxed myself. But this is a welcoming city for us, and we have already decided to come back somehow, perhaps for the marathon next year…perhaps as just a dream because it took us so long to get here this time…but it is a dream that is so wonderfully real.

Its Monday, the Belgian's Must Be On Strike

We arrived at the train station early, all ready to take the Thalys bullet train to Paris, only to find out that the rail workers in Belgium had called a general strike which shut down any outgoing train service from Holland to France...because all trains have to pass through Belgium. The station agent was tired, having answered endless inquiries since 3, but she was cheerful in a sort of fatalistic way.

So we shrugged and headed back to the hotel, got our same room back and then spent the afternoon writing postcards and catching up on rest. I also hopped on the internet to see if I could find out more about the strike.

I Googled "Belgium, Rail strike" and waited tensely for the results. I received many hits and I figured that "Well, this is a big thing, look at all the articles!" that is until I started checking the dates of the articles...October 6, Jun 10, May 14, April, February...the Belgians seem to go on strike quite a bit, and while it causes a great deal of disruption, they never seem to actually achieve anything with their strikes, aside from perhaps getting an extra three day weekend on a fairly regular basis. (Hopefully they haven't planned to travel that weekend).

I scanned the rest of the news to find that CNN, BBC and the rest of the international news sources were very uninterested in the latest Belgian trainworkers little tantrum.

My friend had since told me "Now you have really experienced European travel."

We will leave today without disruption I am sure, because as far as I can see, the strikers seemed to have failed to bring he European Union to its knees. 

From The ER to Flinckx – A Good Bad Day in Amsterdam (Part 1)

I woke uo and knew that my cold had decided to follow its usual course and slipped down from my nose, to me throat to my lungs. I get such colds at home and know how they run, so while it was expected, it was also disappointing. At least at home I knew what to do, and where to go. But here it was in Amsterdam on a rainy Sunday and I knew that unless I got to the doctor, I would be spending much of the upcoming week in Paris, coughing and feeling miserable.

I was supposed to meet Herman today so that he could give us a personal tour, instead I called him to tell him that I would be late as I was going to go to the hospital ER that the hotel clerk told me about. A few minutes after I hung up with Herman, he called me back and said that he would drive me to the hospital. I was very grateful.

The Oosterpark Hospital is very modern with an ER waiting room that is right out of the Jetsen’s. Cheery green walls and smoothly rounded glass walls provide a calm and non-threatening waiting area. I was triaged by a nice nurse and then K**, Herman and I waited for the doctor. There were several people ahead of me, so we waited bout an hour.

The doctor who saw me was a young woman who explained that the Dutch medical philosophy is to wait and see what develops in the body, because in many cases the body is able to heal itself better without the intervention of needless medical treatment. She examined me and said that she was reluctant to prescribe anything as I had no fever and my lungs were clear. But she also paid attention to my symptoms and accepted that I was aware of my own health patterns, and so, based on the strength of my prognosis, she prescribed me some antibiotic and wished me luck in Paris.

Herman then drove us to a Pharmacy that was open on Sunday.  In Holland, Pharmacies only dispense drugs, a Chemist is where you will go to get over-the-counter medicines. The Pharmacy I went to was run by two Muslim women. I entered the door and was separated from the drugs and the women by a clear glass wall with a slide through slot that I could place my prescription in and the pharmacist would pull the drawer through to her side to refill it.

I suppose the partition served the dual purpose of preventing drug thieves from getting easy access to narcotics as well as protecting the Pharmacists in side form getting any germs that the customers may have…a thought that worried me a bit being on the narrow germ-ridden side of the partition.

After a few moments my prescription as pushed back to me through the little drawer and I was on my way.

From the ER to Flinckx – A Good Bad Day in Amsterdam (part 2)

It has been raining steadily all morning and afternoon. After we pick up the antibiotic, Herman suggests that we go to the new library to have some lunch. We agree, but I feel bad for Herman as he is forced to drive the confusing streets of Amsterdam. He is very used to riding his bike and knows exactly how and where to go to get to the library by bike, but in the car there are an endless array of one way streets that tease and torment him.

Finally we reach the dock areas of Amsterdam and are treated to a soggy view of the harbor. The large green Nemo museum, an interactive museum, much like the Exploratorium in San Francisco, that is housed in a large green building that is shaped like the prow of a ship. Herman tells us, that on nice days, it is very pleasant to sit on the steps atop the museum and have lunch.

It would not be so pleasant to do so today.

The parking garage beneath the library is large, clean and well lit. We take the elevator up to the main floor and then have to dash across the open walk to the library entrance, getting mildly soaked along the way.

 

The library is very new and wonderfully modern, with 5 floors of open bookshelves and unique reading/study areas laid out at various points, each study area sporting its own unique seats and design. Herman shows us his favorite, some totally enclosed study cubes in which someone can sit alone and undisturbed. Kiss marks on the little window in the cube indicate that sometimes the cubes may be used for something more than reading books.

We reach the top level which houses the cafeteria. It is nicely laid out with an impressive array of pre-made and quick cooking choices. My favorite is a stir-fry counter where you can select your own choices and then hand it to the cook who cooks it up for you.

After lunch we briefly stepped out onto the observation deck to take in the great view of the harbor and the oldest part of Amsterdam. We would have stayed out there longer but for the unrelenting rain.

Later Herman tells me that on this day, more rain has fallen than normally falls during the entire month of October.

From the ER to Flinckx – A Good Bad Day in Amsterdam (part 3)

Later that evening, we arrange with Herman to meet at a little restaurant around the corner from our hotel. Flinckx is a very small restaurant run by a very expressive woman who teases and flirts equally well in Dutch and in English. K** and I arrived a bit before Herman and his family and this woman asked us if we happen to be meeting “Someone named Van Gessel, who wants a party for 6?” I say yes, then she turns down her mouth in a classic moue and says, “I don’t know anything about that.”

Herman and his family arrive soon after and we sit. Herman’s son, G***, sits across from me and soon devours most of the bowl of bread as well as some Chocolate Milk which A*****, Herman’s wife, informs me is his favorite. Herman’s daughter B***** sits across from K** and she is soon engaged in conversation with K***. B*** has only been studying English for a short time, but she is quite fluent and really seems to enjoy speaking with native speakers like us.

The dinner is quite good, though A***** is mad with herself because she had bought us some Strope Waffle cookies and forgotten to bring them for us. She had served them the night before when we had dinner at their house and we liked them very much.

K*** has hare, and I tried some as well. It was good, a bit denser than chicken and more rich, with a slight gamey quality. I have lamb in a rich basilica sauce. The meal is wonderful, but it is Sunday night and I am aware that they must work in the morning and the children need to get up for school. Also, it is G***’s birthday tomorrow (he will be 9) and A**** informs me that he will be up at 4 AM wanting to get started on all his presents. The woman who runs Flinckx brings G*** a special ice-cream treat with a sparkler in it, and we all sing Happy Birthday in English, which I find a little odd, especially when the other patrons join in.

We walk out into the cool night and walk a short ways to where Herman has parked his car. It is sad, but I am so glad to have reconnected with him after so many years. I am also glad that he has such a nice family. Hopefully it won’t be so long before I see him again.

 

Epilogue:

The next morning K*** and I are rushing around packing and readying ourselves to leave for Paris. We eat early and while K*** goes back up to the room, I head outside to hit the ATM once again. As I step outside the hotel, I hear “Hey Scott”.

Herman is riding up on his bike and he has a bag with him. I know immediately that it is the cookies that A*** forgot to bring. She is a very organized person and I know that she wouldn’t tolerate such an oversite, so she had Herman deliver them on his way to work. We say good-bye again, a bit more personally this time.

My bad day in Amsterdam, turning into a very wonderful experience in the end.

Vrolic Medical Museum: Fascination and Sadness

The Vrolic Medical Museum is a vast collection of medical specimens collected primarily by Dr. Anton Vrolic in the 1900s. The museum is part of the vast Amsterdam Medical Facility that serves as the primary hospital and medical center for the city of Amsterdam.

While housing a large number of medical specimens, by far the largest portion of the museum is focused on preserved fetuses of babies born (or nearly born) with horrendous physical malformations. There are babies with twisted limbs, grossly expanded hydrocephalic skulls, external organ growth and various permutations of undivided twins.

There were also certain samples that basically defy description, aside from saying that they resembled a human only so far as there had recognizable flesh, and the semblance of other features. Essentially, these were monsters and though fascinating from a purely medical oddity point of view, it is hard to ignore the devastating effect that giving birth to such a child would have on the mother and father, and the physicians, nurses and any other attendees.

Was Dr. Vrolic a ghoul for collecting these specific types of specimens, or was he driven by pure scientific curiosity for the ways that the human form can go tragically wrong in its earliest development? Am I a ghoul for been drawn on in looking at these specimens, despite my visceral and emotional revulsion?

Perhaps the answer is yes to all these questions.

Tapas At The Van Gogh

The Van Gogh Museum is open late on Friday night. It houses the largest collection of Van Gogh’s work in the world and is arranged in galleries that progress through the artist’s life according to where he lived and how his work developed, I didn’t know much about Van Gogh aside from the ear incident and that he was supported by his brother. This progression through his life was facinating.

 

What we didn’t expect was that the museum was such a happening place to be on Friday night. The main lobby acts as a casual meeting area that is decked out with deep blue furniture that sits on a carpet of the same deep blue. There is a bar where you can buy wine, mixed drinks and a fruit smash that was very good. A DJ spun 45s of jazzy pop from the 60s to add a very ironic, retro hip feel to the place.

 

People lounged and ate and drank, while others explored the galleries to the fun music. The second floor houses the main collection and while we wandered through we noticed the reason for the lovely blue carpet in the main lounging area. Using the same blue screen technology that is commonly used on newscasts, the lounge area was filmed and projected onto the blank walls of the upper part of the museum, the blue replaced with a rotating display of Van Gogh’s paintings so that the people sitting in the chairs appeared to be sitting, drinking and walking through the paintings themselves. It was a very cool effect.

 

After strolling the galleries, K** and I sat and had tapas of various cheeses, nuts, and bread along with a glass of wine and a fruit smash. It was definitely the way to go to this Museum.

Dutch Stairs

Amsterdam is called one of the first and best “planned cities” in the world, and it is clear why this is so. Every street and canal is laid out in a series of concentric semi-circles that radiate outward from the central district (Centrum). All the streets are lined brick-to-shoulder with narrow multi-story “canal-houses” which are a marvel of optimizing usable space. Rooms are small, but livable with every nook and cranny of possible space utilized in some type of fashion.

 

As I said, no wasted space, so when it comes to getting people to move between floors these Amsterdammers don’t hesitate to cram the most amount of utility into the least amount of space. The result is a harrowing spiral climb up narrow wedges of steps that climb steeply up (and down), almost as if a ladder had somehow been twisted and fooled into believing that it no longer belonged in the yard, but rather had been civilized into indoor duty.

 

These stairways are seriously challenging to walk up or down, and probably are a large reason(along with the bike riding everyone does) why most Amsterdam residents appear thin and fit. 

The Red Light District…Meh

We made the trek to the Red Light District mainly because everyone who knows we are going to Amsterdam has asked “Are you going to see the Red Light District?”. Well, that and if we are going to go into one of “those” cafes…you know, wink wink. There’s a lot of “wink-winking” that goes on when you mention Amsterdam I’ve found.

We arrived at the Red Light District via a Canalbus that let us off right at the Central Train Station. It was raining pretty heavily and it was also right around 5:30 so the streets were filled with a soggy mix of business people rushing home and tourists thronging toward the district. The streets were packed, and about half the people had umbrellas, whose stays seemed to hover right at my eye level making navigation hazardous, if not nearly blinding.

As we entered the district the crowds thinned a bit and we were able to walk a bit more freely. We spent a little time in several of the Dutch souvenir shops, and actually considered buying some “wink-wink” related t-shirt for our friend Jonathan, but we relented and moved on.

There are many narrow alleys that lead off the main street and in the rain and gathering dusk, it is easy to see how this area is well suited for skulking and seemy exploration.

We were intrigued by one alleyway mainly because at the end of it was a church. We headed down the narrow walk and came out upon a winding walkway lined with a few offices, and then several of the display rooms. I’m sure that they have a more official term, but the feeling that I had was of looking at a human sized version of a vending machine. Each small cubicle had a woman in it, dressed in some variation of red underwear and lingerie. The women were all foreign born, dark skinned and well fed. They also looked bored as they watched us watching them. Toward the end of this little block was a day care center that must have served the women in the windows. Quite a clever little business opportunity actually, if you think about it. None of the offices where I have worked had day care right there where I worked.

We circled on around the alley that encircled the church we had seen. The church was closed, and I suspected that the women in this little area may have done quite well simply because they could tap into the “doing-it-in-the-shadow-of-the-church” crowd.

The rain was coming harder and it was getting darker, so we headed back to the train station to catch the canalbus back to the hotel.

So we saw it, but Meh it really didn’t do much for me.

 

 

The Ubiquitous Dutch Bike

Everyone rides bikes here in Amsterdam, and it seems, they are all riding the same bike.  It is a black cruiser style with curved handlebars, black and white fenders and a single utilitarian light poking out in the front. They are the epitome of  basic street transportation, and they are everywhere. Filling the narrow, flagstoned streets, overflowing racks; casually locked against trees, poles or special curved pipes…or leaned against walls, railings and each other.

They all seem to be of an indeterminate age, somewhere between 10 and 50 years old. Some have been customized so that they can cart children in wheelbarrow-like appendages lashed to the front, or sporting some other type of portage device in front or over the rear wheel.

Perhaps the most heartening thing about seeing so many of these unglamorous, utilitarian vehicles everywhere is the attitude that the riders have about them. You see men and women, young, old, black, white, professional, working class and funky, fathers, mothers and children…none of whom are wearing brightly colored spandex togs with slick racing helmets and sleek I’m-so-very-serious sunglasses. No, these are people who remember that a bike is just a very handy way to get from here to there. 

Early The First Morning

We are really here. It is early morning, the clouds are sort of scattering and the city is waking up, like every city in the world wakes up. Cars hissing along wet streets, trucks banging and wheezing. I peak out our window, pulling the curtain aside only a little so as not to let in too much light because K***** is still sleeping. Across the street from our Hotel, I can see into the cupola room of an apartment…a Dutch apartment in Amsterdam! I am excited and scared and eager to get out and see everything.

But there is time.

Yesterday was a long blur of planes, airports and then a long taxi ride through the Amsterdam rush hour talking with our Pakistani driver, Pas. His English difficult to understand, we talked of Pakistani’s problems in policing the borders with Afghanistan and how he has a friend in San Francisco. He then spoke proudly of his daughter, the doctor who will be moving to England to practice gynecology, and his son the MBA. He had one other daughter who was 12 and he shared as how it is expensive to send your children to college. When we arrived at the hotel I paid him with a 50 Euro bill and told him to give me back 5, he said “No, that is too much” and handed me back 7. I thanked him.

We travelled for 16 hours all told, and slept almost as much. I am not certain of the date and have a little fear that somehow I will lose track of what day it is and then miss the train to Paris and fall into a domino effect of missed connections. It’s a silly fear I know.

We are really here, I wonder when I will start to believe it.

Off For Europe

It has been 22 years in the making, but my great return to Europe is about to happen. We leave tomorrow for two weeks. We fly on Virgin Atlantic from here to Heathrow, and then hop a British Airways flight to Amsterdam where we will stay for 5 days. We have about 200 things that we want to do there, but will probably narrow it down to seeing a few of the main museums, the medical museum as well as reconnecting with some friends. 

We will then take a train from Amsterdam to Paris. A four hour ride that should be lovely. We will then stay in Paris for a week. The first time I was in Paris, 22 years ago, I was alone and I thought then that it was ridiculous to be in this beautiful, romantic city all by myself. That situation will be corrected this time as I will be there with K******. 

To be honest, we are both nervous and still a little numb to the fact that we are actually going. But come tomorrow at 4:30, when we are settled into our Virgin Atlantic seats, it will start to become more real. 

So stay tuned as I will be posting updates on the trip for any and all to enjoy.

The Fear of Success

I know, it's funny. Who would be afraid of success right? I mean, success is what we all dream of, or at least we here in America are taught from very early on that success is something to be desired, something to be aspired to.

Be it financial success, fame, a healthy family and house...success, while defined in many different ways, is still the thing that we are told is the the thing to have.

So, now that I find myself suddenly faced with the very real possibility of achieving success, why am I hesitant to step through and commit myself to going for it?

Sure, the success that I am being presented is in the form of an opportunity that has never been offered to me before. The opportunity to step into a true leadership role in a company and start defining its culture and future from the beginning. I will finally be in the position to be the guy who makes the decisions about how the company handles itself, how it conducts its business and how it treats its employees, customers and the public. I can be the guy who I used to grumble about. I can be the jerk who we all can't believe did that stupid thing. I'll be the guy that gets whispered about in the break room because of some stupid decision or policy or idea that I had...or simply be the guy that somebody hates just because I am "that guy".

But what is really worrying me is not that I may be disliked. It is that I know that this role will require me to reach beyond who I have come to believe myself to be. I have been the observer who does his job and jokes about the absurd decisions because I knew that I had nothing to do with those decisions, and that I had no power whatsoever to affect anything, aside from the quality of my own work. 

The reason that I am being offered this opportunity is because someone believes that he has seen the potential in me, and he believes hat I am capable of being that guy.

And that is what terrifies me, his belief in me. His belief does come with very high expectations. He expects me to be the person that he thinks I am. I wonder if I really am that person. I want to believe that I am, but the fear is that I really am not and will disappoint him as well as myself in a huge and devastating way.

Blessed Silence at the DNC

I've been watching the DNC for the past several nights on C-span, and I noticed something...the silence. 

Not from the endless parade of speechmakers, nor from the house band cranking through every 70's and 80's Wedding Reception uplifting dance song they have in their book.. 

No, the silence came from my television itself, because C-Span does not fill every empty moment with some yammerhead "analyst" reinterpreting what was just said as they are addicted to doing on every other network. I don't need Chris Matthews or Tom Brokaw or all the othertalking head "experts" telling me what to think about the speech I just heard, I don't need to be subjected to the innane rambling of some political correspondent's reminiscences of his time on the campaign bus when Hillary spilled grape juice on her pant suit. 

Hey, I have a brain, I have ears and I can make up my own mind on what has just been said. Too often these days, we allow ourselves to be subjected to this analysis for analysis sake, while nothing of any real significance is being said, only dead air being filled with dead words. 

I can hardly wait to watch the RNC next week on C-Span.

Global Warming...A Choice?

PG&E has taken it upon themselves to run a series of radio ads that manage to combine Global Warming, California environmental smugness and selling washing machines. These commercials all have the same basic format: a series of "real" people come on and share their "sincere" statements about how wonderful they are because they are "choosing" to end global warming...as implying, of course, that they are sanctimoniously better than the rest of us slobs. One woman even comes on and masterfully guilt trips her kids by earnestly saying "I'm doing this for you guys."

But what exactly is she doing anyway. 

Aside by the environmentally-holier-than-thou attitude that smugs its way through every word, there is one big problem here, Global Warming really isn't up to us, its this naturally occurring cycle that we have exacerbated, but it isn't up to us. 

Sure, we can make some personal choices that may reduce our personal carbon footprint, like choosing not to buy that new Escalade (like our masterfully guilt-tripping Mom above) but we don't have the power to stop (much less reverse) global warming.

It is this type of self-satisfied hubris that most annoys me about these types of campaigns. They skirt the true issues by making us feel good about using PG&E and buying their approved appliances.

That's why I turn those commercials off when they come on.

My Boy Can Cook

I've been thinking about my brother a lot lately, which really isn't unusual as I think about him often. People think about the people that were important to them, especially when those people have killed themselves and there are a lot of unanswered questions.

He was my older brother and for much of my growing-up years, I idolized him, though he tormented me no end, in my eyes he was a god. That's just how it is with younger brothers and older brothers. 

I could run through a maudlin self-indulgent list of why he was so wonderful to me, and maybe convince you as to why I thought so, but the reality is that you would just read the words and never see the man I looked up to and tried so hard to emulate. You just wouldn't get it, so I am not going to try...and we'll both be happier that way.

We had several things in common: music, fantasy football, pinochle, and cooking. My Mom made sure that we both knew how to cook. She had told us both, "If I die before your father, then you have to get him remarried right away because he would starve otherwise. My Dad could cook toast. My Mom made sure that my brother and I could do much more than that.

Both my brother and I worked our way through several different restaurants on our way to landing in our respective careers. We liked talking about food and cooking, it was a safe subject for us and we were both very passionate about it. As time went by, and we grew older and our lives drifted apart (while his demons and mine grew) we communicated less and less, though invariably, when we did talk, we would touch on each of the subjects...including cooking.

Over the years, my brother adopted a kind of country bumpkin/biker look that confounded the rest of the family. He adopted the pose of the outsider and tended to live up to the "family black sheep" persona. After a while, even his speech patterns shifted toward a rural-rough-edged mannerism that was completely contrary to how we were raised. He became an Oakland Raiders fan and thus tended to adopt certain speech patterns. I still understood his words though, because I was listening with that eager "little brother" ear that yearned so for his approval and recognition.

That's why I was thinking of him tonight. Why, when I was cooking a chili-lime seasoned salmon with picatta sauce, herbed rice and peach-strawberry-blue cheese fruit salad I was listening with my "little brother" ears for his voice, standing behind me saying, 

"My boy can cook."

God how I wish I could hear him say that.

Break the silence

It whispers

But not as the soft susurration

Of a breathless lover’s sigh

No

It whispers

As the fiend in the shadows

Hissing secrets so dread to hear

Yes

It whispers

Yet we can scream against the silence

And force the fiend from the shadows

Yes

It whispers

But our voices raised are fierce

For we scream with the voices lost

Yes

It whispers

But we can break the silence

With the fury of our hope

 

Dedicated to those who have been touched by Ovarian Cancer

Support the efforts of the NOCC and other such organizations

Facebook, Privacy, and Common Sense

Awhile ago, a friend talked me into getting my own Facebook account when I mentioned that looking at my 17 year old niece's My Space account felt like hanging around a schoolyard. Sure, Facebook is a bit more grown up, but it is still geared toward the younger, Web 2.0 hip crowd in their 20s. The next step up from a hot singles bar. Again, not a scene that I was particularly interested in getting involved in, though to give it the old college try, I did check out some other friend's Facebooks.

What I found was a dizzying array of strange little surveys, odd games of cyber tag (Vampires) and innumerable pictures of friends, or pictures posted by friends usually of the host in some type of compromising position (drunk, passed out, drinking, undressed...all of the above). Sure, it all looks like fun and games and that everyone is living out one big extended frat party for everyone to see and enjoy.

My question is, do you really want your life to be portrayed in this way to the world. Sure its fun to party and get goofy and do foolish things that you may regret later in more sober moments. But aren't those types of memories best left to reminiscing with old friends in the privacy of your living room? As opposed to say sitting in front of an interviewer for that big grown-up type job that you are yearning for.

The fact is that employers and others with a vested interest in finding out more about the moral fiber and personal responsibility of their applicant are all surfing the net as well. This type of background check is becoming increasingly common and before long will pretty much be standard operating procedure for the interview process.

Your resume may be all sparkling clean and proper, glittering with good schools, recommendations and experience, but when that gets paired with those pictures of you downing jello shots with your underwear on your head, well, the glitter on the old resume kind of flakes off.

I read today of a 27-year old special ed teacher in Florida who is now in trouble because parents found his Facebook page that states "I'm 27 years old and horny as hell" and that he is " an A+++ in bed". While certainly commendable in some circles, I doubt seriously that the PTA is one.

I think that the main truth that may emerge from the Web 2.0 social networking movement is that NOTHING DIES ON THE INTERNET. Once it is out there, it is out there forever. Oh sure there are companies that will do a purge of all your unwanted internet data, for a hefty fee, but maybe there is another, cheaper alternative that could do the trick. A little something called "Personal Responsibility."

If you don't post those underwear-headgear-jello-shot photos in the first place, then they won't come back and haunt you later. Basically, just because you can, doesn't mean that you should.

Driving Jaguars in Marin

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Marin County California, it happens to be one of the wealthiest counties in the country. This is a fact that I have been aware of for the entire time that I have grown up in it.  It is wealthy for a number of reasons: it's proximity to San Francisco; it's beautiful landscape; its temperate weather and it's sublime aura...all of which make it one of the ideal places for people outside of Marin and California to target as THE place that they want to live to demonstrate that THEY have indeed made it in life. The problem is, that for those of us who did actually grow up here in modest suburbia, living here has , for all intents and purposes, become financially impossible. 

Yes I still live her, but I have rented all my adult life and the prospect of me ever being able to afford any of the freakishly overpriced homes here is less than anorexic to non-existent. So why do I stay? Why have I stayed? Simple, it is home. This is where my family is, where my roots truly are and where I have found solid and gainful employment all of these years.

Sure I could move away from the place that everyone seems to want to move to, but where would I go? Stick a finger in a map and hope for the best? 

Well, thats a subject for another blog. This blog entry is about the kind of people who live here and have the money to buy expensive, high performance cars, though they have no right or reason to drive them.

Unfortunately, the median age of the residents in Marin has crept higher and higher due to a combination of long term residents who still live here because they bought their houses in the 60s and 70s and newer, old residents who are usually the only ones who can actually afford to buy new homes here (at the inflated prices).

So, I would say that the median age of the residents in Marin now approaches 60+. Now I have nothing against older people. I know several, and I will be a member of that same category myself in ...well in a decade and a half or so. No, my problem is those self-same older folks who have made it to their golden years with an over abundance of discretionary income who believe that they need to spend that income on purchasing a Jaguar.

I know, a Jaguar is a lovely high performance car that is legendary for its speed and handling. I would LOVE to drive one myself, but I happen to be a part of the Honda Civic set so such luxuries are currently beyond my enjoyment. 

However, that doesn't minimize my annoyance at these elders who have purchased one of these fine automobiles for the soul purpose of put-putting to and from the Whole Foods so that they can buy their organic Metamucil. 

When I am stuck behind one of these grey-headed traffic-constipates is driving ahead of me in their $90,000 auto, I do tend to entertain thoughts of intentional rear-end ramming and car-jacking for no other reason than to steal the car and drive away at speeds that suit the design and performance standards of the car.

I had the mis-fortune of once owning an Austin Marina, which is a rediculous excuse for an automobile. Nothing about the car worked as it should, and I often had to take it to the only British Motor Car mechanic in town to repair. Fortunately, this gentleman took pity on me and usually did the repairs at a reduced cost. I am certain that one of his motivations for doing so was the fact that his shop was always filled to capacity with a number of Jaguars. He used to shake his head and say that the worst thing that you could do to a Jaguar was drive it to and from the store. The thing is designed to drive at 120 miles per hour, anything less is an insult and this car is very proud and doesn't suffer such indignities lightly.

So, I suppose that it is some solace to me to know that the drivers of these glacially driven Jaguars must frequently suffer the expensive attention of highly specialized mechanics. But honestly, I would much rather give in to my road-rageous fantasies and drive the things like they were meant to be driven. 

Sigh...now get the hell out of my way!!!!

Pomegranates

Awhile ago I discovered pomegranates. 

OK, no I didn't discover them, I mean they were already there, and had been for thousands of years. But being that they were new to my own cooking repertoire, they were new to me.  They are a wonderfully healthy and tasty fruit that require a certain amount of dedication and creativity to really enjoy.

They are beautiful and messy (the bane of clean white shirts everywhere) but the arils look like rubies and really are quite lovely when released from their protective rind. And, once they are released, what do you do with them? Most of the recipes that I have seen seem to revolve around using the whole arils in some sort of mixture with other things, or sprinkling them on salads. Sure POM has taken great strides in marketing pomegranate juice in any number of varieties, but really, the juice is still left inside the aril where it may be a tangy little treat, but it doesn't do much to participate in a recipe as a full fledged member of the flavor pool.

So I set about finding ways of extracting the juice and meat from the arils so that it could be used as a sauce ingredient.  After several attempts I worked out the following method for extraction:

Open the pomegranates under water in a large bowl and then extract the arils beneath the surface of the water as well. Just let them sink or float in the water until you are done (hint, make the water luke warm so as to reduce the effect of cold water on your hands as the extraction takes a bit of time)

Once all the arils have been extracted, remove the pieces of rind from the water and then pour the remaining water and arils through a strainer.

Then pour the arils into a food processor (save out a handful for garnish and finishing) and grind the arils into a lovely ruby mash. Each aril is a combination of juice capsule and seed, the seed is the problem as it really doesn't add any flavor and it's small size is rather unpleasant to eat on its own. Using the food processor separates the juice capsule from the seed very effectively.

Next pour the mash into a strainer that is resting over a bowl, then use a flexible spatula to scrape the mash through the strainer so that the juice and as much of the meat gets squeezed into the bowl. After you have done the primary scraping, make sure to scrape the residue from the underside of the strainer as much of the meat and pulp clings there and you definitely want to get that into the juice in the bowl below.

You can use a touch of white wine to extract even more of the meat from the remaining seeds in the strainer.

Once you have gotten all the meat and juice off of the underside of the strainer, you can then throw the remaining seeds away. (I will keep working on some way to use these remains).

The bowl will now be filled with a pulpy ruby red liquid that will now be your base. 

The wonderful thing about using this base is that it stands up delightfully well in many types of sauces, especially in reduction sauces that often separate at the most inconvenient moments (like right before serving your masterpiece dinner!). Not our hearty little pomegranate sauce. Nope this stuff works with you like it is really glad to be opened up and released from its little ruby-jeweled shell, like a beauty queen who also happens to be a member of MENSA ...this stuff deserves to be taken seriously and appreciates it when you get over it's natural attractiveness.

Next up, basic sauces to make with pomegranates.

Losing Salt and Discovering Flavor

I didn't realize just what kind of a cooking rut I had fallen into until I suddenly had to give up one of the key ingredients in all my recipes, salt. I had been cooking for years, and had, like many seat-of-the-pants cooks, fallen into a tried and true routine of spices and dishes. You know what I mean, those recipes and flavors that you can always rely on. Sure, you can mix them up and branch out from your core team, but never too far.

My team was generally Italian-American. I went through Italian seasoning mix, garlic, green onions at a pretty even clip, and of course, there was always salt rounding everything out and making sure that all those spices played nicely with each other. Once in a while, I'd saute in a little pepper, some cajun spice, and on a wild night, we'd go for the Jerk seasoning.

The dishes rotated through a regular cycle of pastas, picattas, pomegranate and grilled steaks. I stayed with chicken, salmon, turkey, steak, the occasional tofu and pork loin. All this worked fine, because all that does work fine together. You really can't go wrong with a mix of basil,oregano,garlic,thyme,rosemary,salt and pepper. It just works on so many things, but after a lot of years, it gets stale and ...dare I say it, boring. At least for the cook.

But when my girlfriend was told to go on a salt-free diet, something clicked in me. Suddenly all my old standards seemed incomplete and inadequate. You may have read some of my early posts regarding rushing out and finding new spices and no-salt options, however, what I have rediscovered is my joy at using fresh herbs in everything I prepare. Suddenly my dishes are bursting with multifaceted tastes that are exciting and new and dangerous (at least to my safe little flavor realm). Suddenly my taste buds are waking up and digging out from beneath the layers of salt that have been coating them for years.

And with the new flavors I am trying new combinations, stretching my imagination in regard to what I want to cook next. Before this change, I would try and yank out some old standard the moment I got home, going through the motions ;until I could get it on the table and consumed...but now, my day is filled with thoughts of what I am going to make, how I will prepare it, how will the flavors mix and blend, where the new tastes will lead me, what new combination will reveal a new joy. 

Truly losing my favorite spice has opened new doors of flavor and excitement. 

Cooking Therapy

For a long time, I have been able to gauge the stressfulness of my day by the complexity of the recipe that I create when I get home. There is a direct correlation between the amount of chopping, stirring, braising and general work involved in a recipe and the amount of *stuff* that I have endured during the day.

So bear that in mind when you hear what we had for dinner last night. I wanted to have salmon again. Salmon is a good reliable fish that has its own nice flavor but doesn't tend to overpower anything with its presence. Essentially, you always know that you are eating salmon, you just don't have to have it beat you in the skull with its presence. 

Of course, being that I live in the overfished and polluted waters of the San Francisco Bay area, I have to rely on buying either farmed salmon or alaskan salmon...either of which is fine for my purposes (as I usually like to do some sort of sauce) and the fact that I don't care to spend half my paycheck for the honor of purchasing a "wild" salmon fillet. 

I was looking for contrast and something different (that involved lots of prep and chopping...it was indeed one of those days) so I started out pouring a little olive oil into a shallow pyrex and then loaded the oil with a lot of salt-free cajun-creole spice, lime juice and no-salt and garlic powder. I then lay the fillet skin-side up into the pyrex and let it sit for awhile so that it would soak up the spices and get well coated with a thick layer of the stuff.

Before removing the fillet, I heated a little salt-free butter in a saute pan, making sure to let the pan get very hot before removing the fillet and placing in face down in the saute pan. I let it sit there for about 5 minutes, the intent being not to cook it, but to sear in the cajun/creole spice layer and blacken it. I then pulled out the fillet and placed it skin-side down on a baking rack and shoved it into the over to bake at 350 for about 30 minutes. The top was a nice evenly seared black.

I then diced some pineapple, mango and raspberries into small pieces and marinated them in a tiny amount of lime juice and balsamic. While the salmon cooked I prepped some brown rice with salt-free chicken bouillon, a generous amount of fresh cut herbs, mushrooms, no-salt, crushed garlic and scallions.

When the salmon was done, I removed it and layered the pineapple-mango-raspberry mix on top, and then served it with the rice and some sautéed spinach. The contrast of the cajun-creole and the sweet topping worked nicely, bringing out a savoriness in both that didn't hide the salmon, just perked it up.

So enjoy the fruits of my lousy day.

The Snapper Experiment

OK, salmon is all well and good, but it was time to branch out. This no-salt regime has given me a real challenge and, while it is fun, it is also a little dangerous. Albeit not running fullspeed down a heavily wooded hillside dangerous, but more, "you really going to eat that?" dangerous. I mean, it's still just food right? Pretty much normal, American style food...nothing too outrageous like fried grubs over a mud-wasp pate. 

Still I am breaking out of my own rut here and venturing into semi uncharted waters, at least for me...hence the snapper. Red snapper is a lovely dense fish with a mild natural flavor and a toughness that can stand up to a lot of different cooking styles. It takes flavor pretty well, especially when you let that flavor ride in on the acid in lemon and/or lime juice.

I started out with a light wheat-flour and herb dusting and a quick sear to brown the outside. Then I put it into bake at 350 for about 30 minutes. A couple days before, we had gone to a Mexican restaurant where we had salmon with a salsa on top. It was nice and I wanted to try my hand at something similar.

I chopped tomatoes and avocado, and then made a marinate of freshly chopped basil, oregano, garlic, lemon thyme and green onions. I added some red and mild yellow peppers along with no-salt, seasoned pepper, olive oil, lemon and lime juice and some balsamic vinegar. I mixed all of that with the tomato-avocado mix and let it sit while the snapper baked. 

When the snapper was done I spooned the tomato-avocado mix over the fillets and served with some slices of fresh pineapple and a light side salad. It was pretty tasty, though the balsamic did lend a sweetness that wasn't particularly to my personal taste. Next time I would probably cut back a little on the balsamic and maybe kick of the heat a little with some spicier chilis.

Next stop, everyone's dreaded vegetable, brussels sprouts. My mom hated them so I never had them growing up, but I am going to try and Italian style saute. Wish me luck.

Piccata Sauce

Sure you are thinking, chicken, veal or salmon piccata is not what you would consider the most healthy type of sauce, and , of course, you would be right. BUT ITS SOOOO GOOD. But the one thing about Piccata sauce is that it really doesn't call for any extra salt, it's really just white wine, butter and lemon, and of course capers which we'll get to later. So, white wine and lemon are relatively salt free, actually lemon and wine are pretty salt neutral (unless its lousy wine, and why are you cooking with rotgut anyway?)

So the problem really is the butter, and yes, you do need butter to make a real and decent piccata sauce. So I have always used a high fat content butter to make the sauce, usually the Challenge European Style butter. The high fat content in the butter is what makes the sauce set up so nice and creamy and ...well delicious. 

But, I had always seen the Challenge European Style butter come in two forms, salted and UNSALTED. Bingo! I went to the store and checked and the unsalted type lists 0mgs Sodium on the label, so I grabbed me some and headed home.

The first time I tried it was in a Sole Dore. It worked well so I figured that it would have to work for the Piccata, and if push came to salty shove I could always compensate with the no salt to bring up the flavor. I was excited.

The keys to a good piccata sauce is timing and courage. Timing in that it must be given a chance to reduce properly, and courage because you have to be willing to hang in there to the last possible moment of perfect silky smoothness before the entire sauce breaks and you have a clear lemony butter sauce that just looks pitiful and embarrassing.  So the challenge was on.

1/3 stick of the butter, the juice of one lemon, and a bit of wine...how much is a bit? depends on your mood and your proclivities, you decide, but it is essential that you get enough in there to impart that certain wine essence as well as allowing the alcohol in the wine to dissolve off, and in the process impart it's alchemical magic to the remaining ingredients. Throw them into a sauce pan and turn up the heat. Piccata needs high heat and a lot of stirring, constant stirring, especially while the sauce is boiling. The more stirring the better the sauce. The only problem that this presents is that anything else you may be cooking will have to wait. Piccata demands attention like an ADHD child with a flamethrower...you have to watch it all the time or else your house is toast and your sauce is devolved into burnt separated butter that your guests will politely thank you for before they surreptitiously spit the offending morsels into their napkins.

If you are like me, you cook restaurant style, fast, clean and on time. Everything comes out at the same time which requires planning and timing. I braise and bake the chicken breast first, then while it is baking I prepare the vegetables and rice, or salad (tonight was a lovely avocado and tangelo mix with a homemade (salt-free) vinaigrette...mmmmm.)

So, like Hitchcock making a movie, I did 90% before I even turned on the oven...OK, I turned on the oven to heat it up, but while it was heating I prepped the herbs and veggies, poured the wine, butter and lemon into a saucepan...and dropped the chicken breasts into the ziplock of wheatflour and herbs. The veggies were then mixed with the herbs and oil and a touch of vinegar and set aside, the chicken was braised on some high heat and then moved onto a roasting rack and shoved into the oven for 30 minutes, and the sauce, well it would have to wait.

See, the waiting is where the courage comes in. You can't make piccata sauce ahead of time, it has to be last minute, coming to creamy life at the last instant as the oven timer goes off, the vegetables are reaching saute perfection and everything is coming together like a hippie harmonic convergence. Miss a beat, get a phone call, start a fight with your girlfriend and you might as well let the ADHD kid have his way with the flamethrower.

Well, aside from doing some double handed work with stirring the sauce and sauteing the vegetables, everything came together just fine.  The sauce set up perfectly, smoothing into that pale yellow ambrosia that just coats the chicken lovingly, and avoids running too far away across the plate. I mean who wants slutty sauce that just slides up all over everything. You want sauce with dignity, restraint and class. The vegetables have their own identity and while they may speak highly of the lovely piccata sauce, they don't care to just jump into the rut together unless they are properly introduced. 

So what of the capers? Well, there is no avoiding the sodium in capers because of the brine that they are pickled in, but you can reduce the damage. Pour a handful into your palm and then rinse them in the tap before you add them to your sauce (and piccata is just not piccata without capers). At least by rinsing you remove the excess brine-sodium clinging to the little peppercorns. They still get to impart their tangy comment to the sauce, while overall the dish was flavorful and low sodium. 

The Discovery of Hidden Sodium

To start with, it is very difficult to find any packaged foods that are not packed with ridiculous amounts of sodium. Sometimes the amounts are so ludicrous that the labels have to fraction down the displayed amounts so that they don't make people start weeping in the aisles of Safeway. This fractioning down is done cleverly by the use of "per serving" listings. So that nice can of Campbell's Tomato soup that says it has 800 mgs of sodium per serving seems high, but semi-tolerable until you read the fine print and find out that Campbell's believes that you can get 2.5 servings out of one can, which translates to that little can actually having 2000 mgs of sodium (800 x 2.5=2000). The USDA recommendation for daily sodium intake is 2400 mgs (usually these USDA recommendations are listed right on the label as well...convenient huh?)

So when my girlfriend was recently told to go onto a No-salt diet, we faced quite a challenge, one that re-ignited my interest in cooking. I am the first to admit that I have a "salt-tooth" big time. But I also love my girlfriend so I set out to see what could be done. First stop, the grocery store.

There are actually a lot of salt-free spices in the supermarket. I found  Italian, Mexican, Cajun/Creole and poultry seasoning mixes all salt-free. In addition I discovered crystallized Lime, cumin and chili powder. 

I was very excited. Suddenly there was a whole world bursting open to me outside of my safe little realm of salt, garlic, basil, oregano, lemon and seasoned salt...oh yeah, and pomegranate (more on that in posts).

OK, so what to cook first?