Yesterday Herself got a hankering for lamb chops, something I never cook, so I cast around online for a recipe, hit the Whole Paycheck and got busy.
Turns out it’s pretty simple stuff — season four loin chops with paprika, salt and pepper, brown ’em in olive oil, add some halved shallots and stuff the whole mess into the oven at 400 for a few minutes.
Plate the lamb, then add some quartered plum tomatoes, kalamata olives and flat-leaf parsley to the skillet, toss, and serve it up alongside some wild rice and seared Brussels sprouts. Fast fast fast. A glass or two of Chateau du Cengele Côtes de Provence 2006 and you’re good to go.
I slightly undercooked the Brussels sprouts, but you can’t have everything. Not at Chez Dog, anyway. The chef de cuisine is as short-tempered as he is inept.
Jesus, Hosni Mubarak has really stepped in it now. He and his veep have basically told Egypt to shuddup, siddown and get back to work. Good luck with that. Let’s see how the army votes.
Whew. Long week in the old VeloBarrel, helping cover the likes of the Tour of Qatar, for reasons that elude me. I mean, props to anyone putting on a bike race anywhere, but jeez, we’re not exactly talking Paris-Roubaix here. The comedic cyclist-rides-camel pic is right up there with the obligatory Tour de France sunflowers shot as one for the who-gives-a-shit file.
There is other “news,” of course. Alberto Clenbutador is telling anyone who will listen about his innocence and how he will fight until the last dog is dead. Stop the presses, boss, we’ve never heard that one before. Now he’s said to have given up beef, just in case. Better become a Breatharian, ‘Berto old scout; it’s the only way to be sure. And try not to inhale around anyone using an inhaler, burning a fatty, operating a chemical plant, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
And then there’s Riccardo Riccò, that silly shit. If he really managed to transfuse his dumb ass with some bum blood, then Fabian Cancellara has it exactly right: Send him to the moon. Pow, right in the kisser! One of these days, Riccò, straight to the moon!
Hey, the moon would be an upgrade from this place lately. It’s 6 degrees right now in Bibleburg and we’re looking at a low around zero, 2 degrees, something like that. Plus there’s no Innertubes on the moon, so you don’t have to read about 20-something fuckwits who mistook the ketchup bottle for the blood bag when it came time to gas up for the Tour Med.
It’s been one of those weeks, an unholy convergence of deadlines for two magazines and consultation with a third, extra shifts in the VeloBarrel while management plays in the desert (Tour of Qatar), and some actual winter weather. Nothing like the folks back east or in New Mexico have been enduring, just a mild annoyance that makes outdoor cycling iffy.
I slipped out between chores this afternoon, but waited too long to get rolling — popcorn snow was peppering my cheeks within a few minutes and then it was a sort of half-assed sleety, slushy thing going on. I was prepared, kinda, sorta, jersey pockets stuffed with everything but full booties (just toe warmers), and stopped under a bridge to add a couple layers before forging ahead.
Alas, while most of me was OK with cycling cap, tuque, winter gloves, rain jacket, two long-sleeved jerseys and a long-sleeved polypro undershirt, neoprene knee warmers, wool socks and bibs, it was the lack of booties and fenders that did me in. I hate cold feet and a wet butt the way Caribou Barbie hates smart people. And I am not one of the smarties, because I have neoprene booties and three — three! — bikes with fenders.
So I slunk home through the icy puddles, muttering to myself. “Thank God I’m not a pro,” I thought. “I’d have to do this every day, times a thousand, and then take dope on top of it all, wondering which one of the boys on the bus would wind up being my Floyd Landis.”
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