"If I were to write our love story, no one would believe it. My real-life story is unbelievable. I tell my friends, but they dismiss my love for you as puerile, inconsequential. I tell them what happened and they consider me foolish.  Perhaps I never manage to convey how much I loved you. I say it: I love you. I love you so much my heart aches, as physical hurt.  But what does it mean really?  Words, nothing but words. If I could show them how much I loved you, how much I love you still, they might see why I stayed, how I let the story unfold.  If I could show them, I would be able to explain how I let the cruelest man in the world destroy any remaining dignity I had."

All Possible Pain

Feelings seem like made-up things,
though I know they’re not.  
I don’t understand why they lead me
around, why I can’t explain to the cop  
how the pot got in my car,
how my relationship  
with god resembled that
of a prisoner and firing squad  
and how I felt after I was shot.
Because then, the way I felt  
was feelingless. I had no further
problems with authority.   
I was free from the sharp
tongue of the boot of life,  
from its scuffed leather toe.
My heart broken like a green bottle  
in a parking lot. My life a parking lot,
ninety-eight degrees in the shade  
but there is no shade,
never even a sliver.    
What if all possible
pain was only the grief of truth?  
The throb lingering
only in the exit wounds  
though the entries were the ones
that couldn’t close. As if either of those  
was the most real of an assortment
of realities—existing, documented,  
hanging like the sentenced
under one sky’s roof.    
But my feelings, well,
they had no such proof.

Brenda Shaughnessy

Instructions for Life by The Dalai Lama

1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
2. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.
3. Follow the three R’s:
   -  Respect for self,
   -  Respect for others and
   -  Responsibility for all your actions.
4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.
6. Don’t let a little dispute injure a great relationship.
7. When you realize you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
8. Spend some time alone every day.
9. Open your arms to change, but don’t let go of your values.
10. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
11. Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and
    think back, you’ll be able to enjoy it a second time.
12. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.
13. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.
14. Share your knowledge. It is a way to achieve immortality.
15. Be gentle with the earth.
16. Once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before.
17. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.
18. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.
19. If you want others to be happy, practice compassion.
20. If you want to be happy, practice compassion. 

I Am For... Claes Oldenburg (1961)

I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.

I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap and still comes out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for all art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.

I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.

I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.
I am for art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.
I am for the art out of a doggie’s mouth, falling five stories from the roof.
I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.
I am for an art that joggles like everyone’s knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.
I am for art that is smoked like a cigarette, smells like a pair of shoes.
I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses like a handkerchief.
I am for art that is put on and taken off like pants, which develops holes like socks, which is eaten like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt like a piece of shit.

I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps.
I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.
I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds hair.
I am for art you can sit on. 

I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.
I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.

I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind man’s metal stick.
I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. 

I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.
I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetie’s arm, or kiss like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on like an old tablecloth.
I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.
I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.
I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine.

I am for the art of a government check. 

I am for the art of last war’s raincoat.
I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer holes in winter. 

I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. 

I am for the worm’s art inside the apple. 

I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.

I am for the art of neck hair and caked teacups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.
I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red-and-white gasoline pumps.
I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.
I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. 

I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. 

I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. 

I am for the art of slag and black coal. 

I am for the art of dead birds.
I am for the art of scratching in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. 

I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.

I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. 

I am for the art of kids’ smells. 

I am for the art of mama-babble.
I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beer-drinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. 

I am for the art of falling off a barstool.

I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. 

I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. 

I am for the majestic art of dog turds, rising like cathedrals.

I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. 

I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.
I am for the art of fat truck tires and black eyes.
I am for Kool art, 7UP art, Pepsi art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L&M art, Ex-lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New art, How art, Fire Sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. 

I am for the rat’s dance between floors. 

I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. 

I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. 

I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. 

I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.
I am for the art of meows and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.
I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and closings.
I am for the art of rust and mold. 

I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. 

I am for the art of worn meat hooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue, and yellow meat.
I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. 

I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. 

I am for the art of crayons and weak, gray pencil lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.
I am for the art of teddy bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men sleeping in them.

I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums and tambourines, and plastic phonographs.
I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. 

I am for an art of water tanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.
I am for US Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-Eat art, Best-for-Less art, Ready-to-Cook art, Fully Cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art…

“I opened myself to you only to be skinned alive. The more vulnerable I became, the faster and more deft your knife. Knowing what was happening, still I stayed and let you carve more. That's how much I loved you. That's how much.” ― Rabih Alameddine

"To save myself, I destroyed another, and in doing so, I destroyed myself."

(You know who you are.)

In Favor of One's Time

The spent purpose of a perfectly marvellous
life suddenly glimmers and leaps into flame
it's more difficult than you think to make charcoal
it's also pretty hard to remember life's marvellous
but there it is guttering choking then soaring
in the mirrored room of this consciousness
it's practically a blaze of pure sensibility
and however exaggerated at least somethings going on
and the quick oxygen in the air will not go neglected
will not sulk or fall into blackness and peat

an angel flying slowly, curiously singes its wings
and you diminish for a moment out of respect
for beauty then flare up after all that's the angel
that wrestled with Jacob and loves conflict
as an athlete loves the tape, and we're off into
an immortal contest of actuality and pride
which is love assuming the consciousness of itself
as sky over all, medium of finding and founding
not just resemblance but the magnetic otherness
that that that stands erect in the the spirit's glare
and waits for the joining of an opposite force's breath

so come the winds into our lives and last
longer than despair's sharp snake, crushed before it conquered
so marvellous is not just a poet's greenish namesake
and we live outside his garden in pure tempestuous rights

Frank O'Hara

A Blessing by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.   

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me   

And nuzzled my left hand.   

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom. 

Mark Steinmetz: Summer Camp

I miss my father

Your absence has gone through me 
Like thread through a needle. 
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

W. S. Merwin

Carnivorous

Bone-In Ribeye 

The False Coin--Paris Spleen--Charles Baudelaire

As we were leaving the tobaccoist’s, my friend carefully sorted his coins.  Into his left vest pocket he slipped little pieces of gold; into his right, silver pieces; into the left pocket of his trousers, a clutch of pennies; and finally, into the right, a two-franc silver coin he had carefully checked.

“Odd and fussy distribution,” I said to myself.

We came upon a beggar who held his hat out shakily. –I find nothing more disquieting than the mute eloquence of such suppliant eyes, containing a once, for who can read it, so much humility, with as much reproach.  Something nearing that profoundly complicated feeling can be seen in the eyes of dogs when they are whipped.

My friend’s offering was much larger than mine and I said to him, “You are right; except for the pleasure of being astonished, there is no greater than to cause surprise.”---“That was the false coin,” he replied tranquilly, as if to justify his prodigality. But my poor brain, always scouting out imaginary byways (what a tiresome head nature foisted on me), suddenly arrived at the idea that my friend’s conduct was excusable only if it meant to create an event in the life of this poor devil, maybe even to understand the diverse consequences, baleful or other, that could result from a false coin in a beggar’s hand.  Might it not multiply into genuine coins?  Could it not get him thrown in prison?  An inn-keeper, for instance, or a baker, could have him arrested as counterfeiter or passer of false coins.  Just as likely, the false coin might prove, for a petty speculator, he germ of a few days wealth.  So my fantasy went on, lending wings to my friend’s wit and deducing all the possibilities of all possible hypothesis.

But then my reverie was rudely broken by my own words recurring: “Yes, you are right; no pleasure can be sweeter than a man’s surprise, getting more than he hoped for.”

Looking at my friend squarely in the eye, I was appalled to see his eyes shining with uncontestable candor. Clearly then I saw how much he wanted to make at once a charitable act and a good deal; a bit of gain along with God’s approval; to win paradise at a bargain; finally, to get for nothing a reputation of being charitable. I could almost have pardoned the desire for criminal enjoyment I had just thought him capable of; I could have found curious, singular, that he was amused to compromise the poor; but I would never pardon the ineptitude of his calculation. Meanness is never excusable, but there is some merit in knowing you are mean. The most unredeemable vice is to do evil from stupidity.

Charles Baudelaire

A Study of Boneless Short Ribs

Short Ribs are better known as Kalbi in Korean terms and are a rich and flavorful portion of beef that lend themselves well to many styles of preparation.  They are used in various capacities in Korean cooking like soups, stews, and bbqs. I have never bought boneless short ribs before this week bc I tend to think the bone portion adds depth, substance, and texture to dishes, but shopping at Costco brought them into my proximity so I decided to cave into curiosity and attempt to make something yummy with them. After a day of indecisive contemplation, I started the marinating process without any concrete idea of how I would prepare them. I just knew I wanted to try something different in the final execution.

After a day of basking in the marinade, I vertically sliced one steak into fourths 

and broiled them as they would traditionally be prepared, a) to feed my ravenous child and b) to check the flavor and texture of the beef.

The marinade lent the beef a delicious flavor, but the meat seemed a bit more dense and chewy than the bone-in short ribs I usually use for Korean bbqed kalbi.

Later on in the evening, I found myself extremely hungry and desperate for food, 

so I broiled a thicker portion of short rib "steak" with the intention of slicing it into thin strips, but didn't need to do so because it was perfectly tender and tasty. I think my error in the first preparation was that I didn't bring the beef to room temperature before broiling it.  (My bad.)

The following day, I was hit with the inspiration to put my Smoke N' Grill to use, so I seasoned it with oil,  let the charcoal do it's work for a few hours, and then added the browned pieces of short rib into the smoker for a couple of hours to infuse it with cherrywood smokiness.

(Initially, I wanted to grind the meat for kalbi burgers, but I don't have a grinder at home, so I opted for another conceptual option in the meantime.)

The following day, I rendered the fat, sauteed onions, garlic, ginger, onions, shiitake mushrooms, deglazed with sake, then added the smoked short ribs and whatever liquid was left over into the pot and let the meat meld with the vegetables. 

The final plating of the short ribs was highly successful in its flavor profile.  However, I think my browning, smoking, then braising of the beef jerked it a bit into a pleasant, yet unexpectedly

 thicker and richer consistency. It was still incredibly tender, but the beef was not the melt-in-your- mouth texture one expects in a traditional kalbijim.  The next time I attempt to smoke short ribs, I will marinate and put the beef into the smoker in its raw form.  I think I may get better results treating the short ribs like brisket ala Pit/BBQ masters. It wasn't a perfect ending, but I'm excited to attempt the dish again and see where a new technique will take me in my study of short ribs.

Ode to Chicken- Kevin Young

You are everything
to me. Frog legs,
rattlesnake, almost any
thing I put my mouth to
reminds me of you.
Folks always try
getting you to act
like you someone else --
nuggets, or tenders, fingers
you don't have -- but even
your unmanicured feet
taste sweet. Too loud
in the yard, segregated
dark & light, you are
like a day self-contained --
your sunset skin puckers
like a kiss. Let others
put on airs -- pigs graduate
to pork, bread
becomes toast, even beef
was once just bull
before it got them degrees --
but, even dead,
you keep your name
& head. You can make
anything of yourself,
you know -- but prefer
to wake me early
in the cold, fix me breakfast
& dinner too, leave me
to fly for you.

 

Seoulstice: Southern-style Greens, Viet-Seafood Salad, & Napa, Radish, & Garlic Chive Kimchi

Started prepping at 8 this morning and didn't stop cooking until 5:30ish. I did my usual assessment of available ingredients and made a hodgepodge of mismatched, tasty dishes.

I began with an 'imitation is a form of flattery' homage to my friend Pauly's mamasgreens, which don't necessarily taste like hers as much as were inspired by their deliciousness.

I used:

Lacinato Kale

Collard Greens

Turnip Greens

Leeks

Onion

Garlic

Green pepper

Red pepper

Serrano chilies

Ham shank

Roma tomatoes

Chicken stock

White pepper

Cloves

Allspice

Oregano

Brown sugar

Salt

pepper

&

A lil Sherry vinegar when I ran outta

Apple Cider Vinegar :)

After approximately 2 hours...

This is a Vietnamese inspired seafood salad with pomelo and perilla.

  

The 'recipe' calls for:

Sea Scallops

Wild Tiger Prawns

Pomelo

Vietnamese Perilla Leaves, 

(which are closer to Japanese Shiso than the Korean kind)

Mint

Red Peppers

Cucumber

Fried Shallots

Nuoc Cham Dressing:

Lime

Fish Sauce

Brown Sugar

Garlic

Serrano Chilies

White Vinegar

This is the Napa, Radish, & Garlic Chive Kimchi

I put together in a kimono and fuzzy boots while in the middle of an amusing conversation 

during a spontaneous visit from a friend.

To be of use- Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

To Have Without Holding- Marge Piercy

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can't do it, you say it's killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.

Midnight Mapo Tofu

I've been illin' and wishin' for some spicy soup to quell my stuffiness,

 but it's late and there isn't much in the way of yummy delivery options around midnight,

sooooo I made this ma-po tofu with my sister's dinner in mind 

and it turned into quite a tasty delight. 

Midnight Mapo is all about making do with what is available at home when you don't wanna go out. 

My foundational ingredients for ma-po are typically:

Silken and firm tofu for varied texture

garlic

(usually ginger)

leeks

chili bean oil

a splash of soy

a can of chicken stock

sesame oil

oyster sauce

pepper (black and szechuan)

corn starch

 I like cooking at home because doing so makes it possible to add 

whatever ingredients suit your fancy and flavor in the moment. 

 Fortune had it that I had shiitakes, bok choy, and filet of sole on hand 

so I made a merry medley and it worked wonderfully well together, 

although you should probably know that I sauteed the shiitakes separately 

and blanched the bok choy before it went into the sauce.

Happy Eating!

Seoulstice: Kimchijigae

When kimchi has fermented past the point of pleasurable edibility, 

it is the perfect time to transform its sour flavor into a hearty stew.

My recipe calls for:

kimchi

rib beef bones (roasted)

bacon

onion

leeks

butter

dark brown sugar

serrano pepper

water

All the ingredients are simmered together for approximately 20-30 minutes,

then covered with water and braised for a few hours.

This is a picture of the jigae after a few hours of braising. 

This is the jigae after a night of rest.  

Soups and stews tend to be better the next day, 

so I let it sleep, then rendered the fat the next morning. 

Another great thing about kimchijigae is that it lends itself to versatility. You can add an enormous range of ingredients to mix it up and improve upon the base flavors. 

I added blanched Lacinato Kale to give it a bit more color and texture.

I don't mean to toot my own horn but goodgawd, it's delicious!!!
Can't wait to share it with my family!!! :D

This is what friendship looks like...

These are pics from the last few years and I have so many more...
(I'll add captions when inspiration and time allow it)

My son has a good life. :)