Category: Cooking

Monday, Monday. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 19 Comments
Splish splash, I wasn’t takin’ no bath. …

It’s been one of those Mondays.

Monday is a watering day. But the forecast called for rain, so early this morning I went out to shut off the irrigation system.

“Huh,” I thought. “Doesn’t look like rain to me.” So I left it on.

Monday is also Geezer Ride Day. So, naturally about the time the watering was done, the clouds started creeping in and the wind began ramping up.

“Huh,” I thought. “Better bail on the ride.” Which I did.

Monday is not Grocery Day. That would be Sunday. But I blew off Sunday’s grocery shopping for a two-hour bike ride in the wind plus a meet-and-greet with the mayor and a few dozen of his supporters.

So suddenly Monday was Grocery Day. And off I toddled to the Sprouts at Tramway and Central, en route nearly getting croaked by a street racer who roared up behind me in the right lane, then shot into the left and around me, barely missing both me and the dude slightly ahead of me in the left lane.

He then swerved onto the shoulder to pass everyone else in sight at about 25 mph over the 50-mph limit, which encouraged another jackass to do likewise, scattering dust, gravel, and debris from previous eejit-triggered crashes across the traffic lanes.

It happened so fast, in so much traffic, that I couldn’t grab the iPhone for a shot of either license plate. And it wasn’t the first time I’d wished I had some other sort of shooter with a tad more authority, like a Browning Hi-Power or a Colt 1911. I mean, you can’t AirDrop one or both of the silly sonsabitches.

Anyway, I got to the grocery without being killed to death, and only then did I notice that I’d left my grocery list at home.

“Huh,” I thought. “Maybe I can do it off the old internal hard drive.”

And I did! Didn’t miss a single item, and even picked up a bonus packet of ground turkey for a chili con carne in case the weather turned ugly.

Which of course it did, since I’d decided earlier to water the lawn. Our widget makes it 0.08 inch of precip slashing down sideways out of the north, and I expect that statistic does not include the hail.

“Huh,” I thought. “I suppose a run is out.” Which it was.

So instead of running, since a few of you seemed to enjoy our little Tour of Memory Lane, I decided to spend a couple hours collecting and posting PDFs of a few of my Adventure Cyclist reviews.

Naturally, I couldn’t find the one about the Rivendell Sam Hillborne, the bike I was riding in yesterday’s wind-fest (13 mph with gusts to 23). If I recall correctly, that one didn’t make the print magazine, but was posted to the Adventure Cyclist blog, where it languishes behind the membership paywall.

“Huh,” I thought. “I bet I have my original copy on another Mac.” And I do.

But I’m not gonna post it. Not yet. I got chili to cook.

Sandy claws

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 4 Comments
Weird-looking Christmas tree. Isn’t even decorated.

Well, our white Christmas finally showed up around 4 p.m. yesterday.

Better than never, I suppose. But 0.04 inch is hardly for the dashing through in a one-horse open sleigh.

Our “white Christmas.”

Ours was a modest celebration at El Rancho Pendejo. We broke fast with coffee, toast, oatmeal, and tea, went out for a short trail run, and lunched on leftover pasta with a mildly lively sauce of tomatoes, sausage, rosemary and olives.

Afterward, while I made the tee-hees here at the blog, Herself whipped up a giant cookie using a shortbread pan she scored from Goodwill. Background music was from The Chieftains, The Pogues, Mozart, Robert Earl Keen, Hozier, Tom Waits … you know, the usual holiday suspects.

Dinner was jambalaya with a green salad. Beverages included Guinness 0.0 and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

Gift-giving was restrained. I have this fine new MacBook Pro, and Herself has the green light for a getaway with a friend.

Gotta save our pennies for those tariffs, $50 cartons of eggs, and $20-per-gallon gas. Also, moreover, furthermore, and too, bribes for the guards at the camp. A fella can’t eat rat tartare three meals a day, y’know.

Black (and Blue) Friday

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
Interdimensional gateway to a timeline where Beelzebozo lost the election? Naw, just our solstice tree reflected in a painting.

Turkey Day is done and dusted, and Black Friday is upon us like Nosferatu with the munchies.

We harmed no turkeys. But three chickens are missing thighs and I don’t think prosthetics or wheelchairs will help them cross the road anytime soon.

I cooked Melissa Clark’s sheet-pan chicken with sweet taters and bell peppers, plus a side of Martha Rose Shulman’s stir-fried succotash with edamame. Herself kicked in a delicious raspberry cobbler for dessert.

Miss Mia Sopaipilla got a yummy StinkCube® with her kibble. When I make tuna salad for sandwiches I squeeze the water from the tuna and we thin it with drinking water before freezing it in ice-cube trays to give Her Majesty a couple weeks’ worth of tasty treats.

I should’ve taken some pix, but after a four-mile trail run and all that cookery we just sat down and chowed down. The grub was gone before I even considered preserving the moment in pixels. If I remember I’ll take some snaps when we wipe out the leftovers this evening.

Herself texted with her sisters, I did likewise with my bros (not blood kin, the chosen variety), and we rang up my sis and her husband to exchange holiday greetings and gnaw our livers over the Pestilence-Erect. Good times, etc.

Today I hope to buy a big bag of nuttin’. Either that or I may hit Page 1 Books for some fresh brain food because I find myself rereading old books again.

There’s nothing wrong with revisiting “Nobody’s Fool” by Richard Russo or “Essays of E.B. White.” But there are roads out there not yet taken.

Grocery run

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo, etc.

When I haven’t been watching crazed seditionists screeching about immigrants living high on the dog or feeding less startling dishes of my own to visiting in-laws there’s been plenty of time for the ol’ bikey ridey around The Duck! City this past week.

The turnaround point.

On Wednesday my geezer brethren and I pedaled south and east through Tijeras and up to the Morning Star Grocery, just past Oak Flat on NM 337.

This annual outing is one of those “your mileage may vary” deals. A couple of us start from home; for me, the ride from El Rancho Pendejo and back is 42 miles with about 2,300 feet of vertical gain. Others drive to the meetup spot, a corporate grocery at Tramway and Central.

Our youngest (59) and oldest (82) riders were a little concerned about completing the entire ride this year. The first was undertrained due to travel and other distractions, while the second confided he felt a little less snappy on the hills lately.

But both soldiered on and finished with honor. Huzzah to one and all.

Miss Mia does her Bill the Cat impression.

With the Morning Star ride and a few lesser outings in the rear view I’ll top 150 miles for this week, which is a lot for me. Also, a good excuse to eat everything in the house. Veggie quesadillas, bolognese over egg noodles, pizza, you name it.

Not the cat, though. Not even with homemade pico de gallo.

Nothing but blue skies

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
The North Diversion Channel Trail, just below the Osuna-Bear Arroyo connection.

Too bloody much going on lately. Trying to corral my thoughts, if any, has been like chasing jackrabbits through a funhouse with a lacrosse stick, wearing clown shoes and oven mitts. In a word: unproductive.

I won’t bore you with the details. We’re talking First World problems here:

The Soma Double Cross at Elena Gallegos.

Buffing the rough edges out of El Rancho Pendejo in preparation for a houseguest. Stalking the elusive turnip for a promised dish (Whole Foods and Sprouts, nyet; Albertsons, da). Learning that I had failed to acquire the ingredients for another anticipated dish, the promise of which I had not been made aware, and the subsequent acquiring of same. Yet another round of flat-fixing, this time in the garage.

My favorite annoyance was an appointment at the local Apple Store’s Genius Bar, where I expected to be advised in fairly short order to hand over my elderly 15-inch MacBook Pro for a vigorous wash and brushup to resolve its “Apocalypse Now/Ride of the Valkyries” fans issue. There’s either some demonic technical haint in residence or enough hair in the case to build an entirely new cat to keep Miss Mia company. Whichever it is, I ain’t going in there looking for it. That’s what we pay Geniuses for.

But no. What I got was straight out of “Nothing but Blue Skies,” by Thomas McGuane. The scene where Frank Copenhaver and his estranged wife, Gracie, visit a Deadrock restaurant for conversation and something to eat. Conversation they get (Gracie insists). But eats, not so much, as waiters glide past without a glance in their direction, the thundering lunch herd slowly thins, and Frank comes to a rolling boil.

After the place empties out Frank finally takes the bull by the horns, flags down a table-wiping waiter, says they’d like to order.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” replies the waiter.

The Apple Store wasn’t closed. But apparently upon my arrival I had not been properly logged in for my 3:30 appointment, which I did not learn until 4:15, when I was ’bout yay far from knocking over chairs and chasing a Genius through his kitchen.

And now I have another appointment on Tuesday.

So, yeah. That’s the scenic route toward explaining the lack of postage around here lately.

Speaking of scenic routes, the pix are from the rides I’ve been taking lately to keep my blood pressure on simmer as I await service.

The bike lane on Spain in High Desert.