SOOOO. It just so happens that a certain Worrior Indian may or may not have gotten a job.
Now the exciting part ( not that Sumit's job isn't exciting by itself... hmm) is that this job may or may not be located in a certain little town I like to call the S-T-L.
And I may or may not have invited him ( or he, me) to share an apartment with me ( or I, him) in the luxurious Camden Trace community located on the corner of Dorsett and McKelvey.
And every night, yes the old idiom is true... "Mahn, we could never be roommates. Every night there would be me, and there would be you."
09 November 2005
12 October 2005
QUICK! I need input on my personal statement.
This is FAR from complete but I need input on the direction that it's taking.
My parent’s sometimes tell me a story of my young childhood – I drew them a crayon picture of a storefront that read, “Joshua’s Love Bakery”. I told them that I wanted to bake bread for poor people and hand out the loaves on the street.
During high school, I was fortunate enough to meet a professional in the medical field who shaped many of my current views of medicine. I had always been a bright student with a keen interest in science, and my family physician, Dr. Grant, suggested that I join him for his shifts at the local Emergency Center at our small town hospital. He allowed me to wear scrubs, carry his clipboard and address patients with him. He showed me basic medical procedure and had a wonderful bedside manner. The care he showed for his patients left a lasting impression on me. But it was when Dr. Grant saved a young boy from a near fatal brain hemorrhage that I’m sure I was most influenced.
I was shadowing Dr. Grant one slow Monday evening, when a 16 year old boy was brought into the emergency room by his mother. He had not picked his sister up from school and could not remember what he did all afternoon. The boy showed no signs of injury or illness. Over a two hour period, we asked the young man a series of questions, ordered tests, and urged the boy’s family to contact those that might know more about his injury. Finally, as Dr. Grant sat with the Nurse Radiologist, he noticed something strange on the computer monitor. He pointed it out to me, and quickly ordered a helicopter. Our small hospital had no facilities for brain surgery, and he was carried to a large children’s hospital about 40 miles away. The boy, as we later learned from his mother, had been playing baseball and hit his head sliding into a base. The broken blood vessel would have caused permanent brain damage, or even killed him, had Dr. Grant not found it that night. I was only 11 months older than this boy.
I first applied to colleges with the idea that I would enjoy research biology. “The lab” had always been extremely fascinating to me. During my experience at Marquette University, my education in history led me to explore the world. I focused my studies on diverse cultures, especially women’s history in Africa and Asia. I researched political and religious themes in the Xhosa of South Africa and developed theses based on constituents’ personal experiences. It was this method of historiography that really spurred my interest in world health and infectious disease. I have always been interested in world events, and have an enthusiastic desire to travel.
When I prioritize my interests, there are always a few that far exceed the others. I want to help people directly. I am eager to make a difference.
My parent’s sometimes tell me a story of my young childhood – I drew them a crayon picture of a storefront that read, “Joshua’s Love Bakery”. I told them that I wanted to bake bread for poor people and hand out the loaves on the street.
During high school, I was fortunate enough to meet a professional in the medical field who shaped many of my current views of medicine. I had always been a bright student with a keen interest in science, and my family physician, Dr. Grant, suggested that I join him for his shifts at the local Emergency Center at our small town hospital. He allowed me to wear scrubs, carry his clipboard and address patients with him. He showed me basic medical procedure and had a wonderful bedside manner. The care he showed for his patients left a lasting impression on me. But it was when Dr. Grant saved a young boy from a near fatal brain hemorrhage that I’m sure I was most influenced.
I was shadowing Dr. Grant one slow Monday evening, when a 16 year old boy was brought into the emergency room by his mother. He had not picked his sister up from school and could not remember what he did all afternoon. The boy showed no signs of injury or illness. Over a two hour period, we asked the young man a series of questions, ordered tests, and urged the boy’s family to contact those that might know more about his injury. Finally, as Dr. Grant sat with the Nurse Radiologist, he noticed something strange on the computer monitor. He pointed it out to me, and quickly ordered a helicopter. Our small hospital had no facilities for brain surgery, and he was carried to a large children’s hospital about 40 miles away. The boy, as we later learned from his mother, had been playing baseball and hit his head sliding into a base. The broken blood vessel would have caused permanent brain damage, or even killed him, had Dr. Grant not found it that night. I was only 11 months older than this boy.
I first applied to colleges with the idea that I would enjoy research biology. “The lab” had always been extremely fascinating to me. During my experience at Marquette University, my education in history led me to explore the world. I focused my studies on diverse cultures, especially women’s history in Africa and Asia. I researched political and religious themes in the Xhosa of South Africa and developed theses based on constituents’ personal experiences. It was this method of historiography that really spurred my interest in world health and infectious disease. I have always been interested in world events, and have an enthusiastic desire to travel.
When I prioritize my interests, there are always a few that far exceed the others. I want to help people directly. I am eager to make a difference.
05 October 2005
I been in the right place, but it must have been a wrong time.
^^^READ SLOW ^^^
^^^ NOT INTENDED FOR USE BY THE YOUNG, PREGNANT, INFIRM, OR WEAK OF STOMACH^^^
Lot's o lot A LOT happening. OH And that's a Dr. John lyric. Song title really, check him out. New Orleans power. Whut whut. (the "right place, wrong time" is the song, not lots and whatever ) . If you happen to be checking out Dr. John right now, also look for Shithouse Blues. It's a classic.
I've decided to skip grammar and punctuation for brevity. Pardon my messy mind. ( Pronouced Meesy Mend)
Work good. Fire bad. Money is awesome but I'm still sweeping floors in Wentzville, which I explained to the 17 year old supermodel with the crush. Gas is KILLING me. My politics involve Drunk Lee ( read: Super intelligent step-mother + bottle of wine) every once in a while and whenever I get sick enough of my CDs to listen to NPR. She just passed her Series 24(23?). Also listening to country. Yes. Country. And He said it was Good. And it was Good. Med school apps got pushed back once more. I fainted at the sight of blood, in the emergency room, and the male nurse laughed at me. And then the doctor laughed at me when I told him I wanted to go to Med School. Hurmph. I haven't cut my toenails in two weeks becasue I want to get a peticure. My sweetie said she needs to get pregnant soon because she's afriad of the elevated risk of breast cancer in fourteen years. Meanwhile she is afraid of commiting to a class schedule next semester because her job might change. I love her so much. My dad treats me like a roommate, son, employee, and pupil all at the same time. I have a CD that I can sing EVERY WORD to at volume. It's only 10 songs but one of them is by My Chemical Romance and one is in Spanish. That's nothing to shake a stick at. If I leave my house and turn the player off everytime I am on the phone, the CD plays through exactly ONCE before I get to Karens. That's mysterious. I have not taken a shit on anyones floor. I got in a fight with my boss, though, because my gravy is better than his and hes washed up. "Plus," he says. "You clean too much." So much for no punctuation. Punctuated equlibrium, thats what Carl Sagan says. I mean Stephen J. Gould. Using the phrase "fruitless enterprise" and the explanation I gave for not swatting flies outside got me a hug. Weird. OH so I gave the so-called-drinker at work a backdraft. He got halfway through and asked for a coke. sucka. That's what you get for messing with Milwaukee. Speaking of, download one country song if you will. The only one ever. I suggest "Honkytonk Badonkadonk" by Trace Adkins. Or theres one that I don't know the name of about this guy who can't drink until he moves to Milwaukee. That's me! And.... I'm out.
^^^ NOT INTENDED FOR USE BY THE YOUNG, PREGNANT, INFIRM, OR WEAK OF STOMACH^^^
Lot's o lot A LOT happening. OH And that's a Dr. John lyric. Song title really, check him out. New Orleans power. Whut whut. (the "right place, wrong time" is the song, not lots and whatever ) . If you happen to be checking out Dr. John right now, also look for Shithouse Blues. It's a classic.
I've decided to skip grammar and punctuation for brevity. Pardon my messy mind. ( Pronouced Meesy Mend)
Work good. Fire bad. Money is awesome but I'm still sweeping floors in Wentzville, which I explained to the 17 year old supermodel with the crush. Gas is KILLING me. My politics involve Drunk Lee ( read: Super intelligent step-mother + bottle of wine) every once in a while and whenever I get sick enough of my CDs to listen to NPR. She just passed her Series 24(23?). Also listening to country. Yes. Country. And He said it was Good. And it was Good. Med school apps got pushed back once more. I fainted at the sight of blood, in the emergency room, and the male nurse laughed at me. And then the doctor laughed at me when I told him I wanted to go to Med School. Hurmph. I haven't cut my toenails in two weeks becasue I want to get a peticure. My sweetie said she needs to get pregnant soon because she's afriad of the elevated risk of breast cancer in fourteen years. Meanwhile she is afraid of commiting to a class schedule next semester because her job might change. I love her so much. My dad treats me like a roommate, son, employee, and pupil all at the same time. I have a CD that I can sing EVERY WORD to at volume. It's only 10 songs but one of them is by My Chemical Romance and one is in Spanish. That's nothing to shake a stick at. If I leave my house and turn the player off everytime I am on the phone, the CD plays through exactly ONCE before I get to Karens. That's mysterious. I have not taken a shit on anyones floor. I got in a fight with my boss, though, because my gravy is better than his and hes washed up. "Plus," he says. "You clean too much." So much for no punctuation. Punctuated equlibrium, thats what Carl Sagan says. I mean Stephen J. Gould. Using the phrase "fruitless enterprise" and the explanation I gave for not swatting flies outside got me a hug. Weird. OH so I gave the so-called-drinker at work a backdraft. He got halfway through and asked for a coke. sucka. That's what you get for messing with Milwaukee. Speaking of, download one country song if you will. The only one ever. I suggest "Honkytonk Badonkadonk" by Trace Adkins. Or theres one that I don't know the name of about this guy who can't drink until he moves to Milwaukee. That's me! And.... I'm out.
18 September 2005
I woke up this morning with Hella Good stuck in my head. Dunh da dunh da dunh. Da Dun da Dunh. Foreshadowing. Gwen at 9am at the outset of a very, very long day with very little sleep is never good.
So my day is spent sucking smoke like oxygen into my tired, 80s singing lungs. I'm a juke-box hero, with stars in my eyes. And I am le tired. I have so much to write about and nothing to say. Just like those other thousands of bloggers, mumbling to ourselves. But my outlook on life right now is something similar. . .
We all stumble through life searching for meaning and truth and happiness and love and all things infinite, but only because we are aware of our own finite lives. Aware. Hell, scared. Some in denial. Some seek comfort as faith; an everlasting life in God. But each day sees us closer to this ultimate end. I usually consider myself lucky, in that I don't seek that same Methuselan goal. I want each day to be spent in a wonderment: an awe of life. To smile and laugh and play and sing and work - hard - at something that might make a difference. Well I sang today. And smoked a lot of cigarettes. And so I am discouraged and disheartened and a lot of other dis-'s and mis-'s ( like misadventured piteous overthrows ) and will have to just suck it up and in, and go back and do it again tomorrow. But I'm really not the type of person to do this for very long. So we'll see. We'll see. At least I don't live in 11th Century feudal Japan.
So my day is spent sucking smoke like oxygen into my tired, 80s singing lungs. I'm a juke-box hero, with stars in my eyes. And I am le tired. I have so much to write about and nothing to say. Just like those other thousands of bloggers, mumbling to ourselves. But my outlook on life right now is something similar. . .
We all stumble through life searching for meaning and truth and happiness and love and all things infinite, but only because we are aware of our own finite lives. Aware. Hell, scared. Some in denial. Some seek comfort as faith; an everlasting life in God. But each day sees us closer to this ultimate end. I usually consider myself lucky, in that I don't seek that same Methuselan goal. I want each day to be spent in a wonderment: an awe of life. To smile and laugh and play and sing and work - hard - at something that might make a difference. Well I sang today. And smoked a lot of cigarettes. And so I am discouraged and disheartened and a lot of other dis-'s and mis-'s ( like misadventured piteous overthrows ) and will have to just suck it up and in, and go back and do it again tomorrow. But I'm really not the type of person to do this for very long. So we'll see. We'll see. At least I don't live in 11th Century feudal Japan.
12 September 2005
Le fin
14 March 04
Writing ceased because of a shift in ideals. Or maybe not such a shift in ideals as much as a theme change. The motif of life for me has gone from a nice paisley that hangs in the kitchen, matching the distinctiveness of the blue hues in the chairs, to a primer grey – a cigarette soaked, rock infested, tattooed 67 corvette with a drunk at the wheel. While I thought this was mostly senioritis, I think instead my peter pan complex has kicked into full effect, dropping the Wendy’s along the way. And with my newly found happy thoughts, are some interesting ideas about cooking.
Onion and Chorizo Penne with Garlic Bread
1 large onion
1 half package of Mexican sausage
half a pound of penne pasta
This dish is simple, quick, and amazing. Gas produced following this meal is of the highest quality and concentration. Best served as late lunch before work.
Wash a frying pan and a large saucepan. Allow to dry over high heat, realizing that neither is actually clean. Yell expletives as you throw one searing pan back into the crowded sink, burning your hand and dropping cigarette ash into your breast pocket. Yell again as the ash burns towards your nipple and extinguish with pan in other hand. Yell again. Scrub the pans for five or so minutes, until you think that the rest of the food will be burnt off the pans while cooking.
Heat oil in frying pan to almost smoke point. Bring 2 quarts of water to a rolling boil and misjudge the amount of salt to add. Resign yourself to salty pasta and add parmesan cheese to ingredient list. Add penne, spilling boiling water into the now hot oil in adjacent frying pan. Cook pasta until slightly tender, leaving some time for finishing.
Julienne onion and add to oil, adding chorizo as fast as you can. Remember plastic skin on sausage after adding to oil, so pull out with fingers. Remove skin, add again. (Chorizo is best when purchased by roommate earlier than two weeks previous. Let sit in meat tray until scary. ) When chorizo is browned, strain pasta and mix both into saucepan. Toss with a little corn oil and fresh grated parmesan cheese.
Use the last two remaining pieces of bread in the apartment, both of which happen to be heels, to make garlic bread. Spread butter onto both sides and sprinkle with granulated garlic and salt. Put into toaster and forget about them for a -good- fifteen minutes. Serve with second helping. Serves 1, three days in a row.
Unrequited Stuffed Peppers with Blood Sauce
Two bell peppers, about the size of a fist
Two tomatoes, soft
Cooked rice
¼ lb bacon
1 onion
Olive Oil, the hopeless romantic kind
1 tblsp Tomato Paste
½ c Chicken Stock or Broth
Dried Basil
The key to this recipe is emotional. Unrepressed, unadulterated, undeniable, miserable hunger for something to feel. After having a dizzying, countless number of relationships with your food, it is impossible to stray from the one you cannot have. Spend a about two weeks thinking about the same person, trying to eat the same food that was once satisfying, only to realize that sustenance is not the same as flavor.
Start by boiling water to peel the tomatoes. Poach for two minutes, and peel under cold water, making swift analogy to hearts that have been pulled out some poor saps chest. Dice an onion, saving half for the rice mixture. Cry a bit. Sautee the onion in olive oil, reminiscing about basil in Dad’s garden, the smell of the rows so sick and sweet. Add tomatoes and herbs. Dilute with half a cup of water and add a tablespoon of tomato paste. This should bring the sauce to an arterial red, thick but vulnerable. Set aside and keep warm.
Start over. New pan. New spoon. New flavor. Chop bacon into one inch squares and fry for one or two minutes. Add rest of onion. Cry some more, just for good measure. Scowl. Pick up phone to call someone else to eat with you, set phone down after a few seconds. Add chicken stock herbs and rice. Rice should be clingy, like unrequited love, but still spongy enough to be pushed and come back for more. Set aside and keep warm.
Decapitate the peppers with a small paring knife. Remove the seeds and white pithy parts from the inside of the peppers. Stuff with rice mixture and top with red sauce. Place in aluminum bread pan or roasting pan. Cook at 275° for 45 minutes. Serve by melting a little cheese over the top.
That one hurt too much. It’ll be the last one for a while.
09 September 2005
WHY?
I've only got a couple more days worth, and they only get better. Why not? Stay tuned because there are some kick ass recipes coming. . .
23 Feb 04
Headline: TEAM WITH FAKE NAME IS UNSTOPPABLE
MILWAUKEE - Politics quickly run into sports, like when small countries consider beating the American rugby, badminton, or jai a’lai team. It is interesting to note the small bands of rebels that will fire their automatic weapons into the air when their cricket team trots off of a victorious field, taking down the giant. Their team, their sport, will take the spotlight and demonstrate that the American administration can be taken down. Also notable, but less noticeable, is the general malaise that will infect a people after losing to such an international superpower, with little to no recognition except in their own country. Though these teams are the best of the best in their countries, American cynicism and culture only allows certain sporting events to be important, leaving the conquering American squads alone in their celebration, and the defeated in relative obscurity. It is no surprise then, when the United States Innertube Water Polo Team ( of Marquette University fame) again beat the College Republican Elephants, there was little cause for celebration from the likes of the national Republican Party. In fact, there was an extremely poor showing at the match, especially considering the USIWPT’s unparalleled record within their conference of Collegiate Coed Innertube Water Polo. With their recent change of name from Brown Lettuce in 2002, to the Lizzie McGuire Water Polo Team in early 2003 and later in that same year the Broad Squad, the Marquette University campus remained calm on Sunday night as the giant of water polo again took its opponent with little resistance. It is reasonable to say, then, that the Bush/Cheney 2004 reelection campaign should be careful to watch the signs.
ooh oh - Go Sudoku. The STL Post is getting it next week. Hot shit.
23 Feb 04
Headline: TEAM WITH FAKE NAME IS UNSTOPPABLE
MILWAUKEE - Politics quickly run into sports, like when small countries consider beating the American rugby, badminton, or jai a’lai team. It is interesting to note the small bands of rebels that will fire their automatic weapons into the air when their cricket team trots off of a victorious field, taking down the giant. Their team, their sport, will take the spotlight and demonstrate that the American administration can be taken down. Also notable, but less noticeable, is the general malaise that will infect a people after losing to such an international superpower, with little to no recognition except in their own country. Though these teams are the best of the best in their countries, American cynicism and culture only allows certain sporting events to be important, leaving the conquering American squads alone in their celebration, and the defeated in relative obscurity. It is no surprise then, when the United States Innertube Water Polo Team ( of Marquette University fame) again beat the College Republican Elephants, there was little cause for celebration from the likes of the national Republican Party. In fact, there was an extremely poor showing at the match, especially considering the USIWPT’s unparalleled record within their conference of Collegiate Coed Innertube Water Polo. With their recent change of name from Brown Lettuce in 2002, to the Lizzie McGuire Water Polo Team in early 2003 and later in that same year the Broad Squad, the Marquette University campus remained calm on Sunday night as the giant of water polo again took its opponent with little resistance. It is reasonable to say, then, that the Bush/Cheney 2004 reelection campaign should be careful to watch the signs.
ooh oh - Go Sudoku. The STL Post is getting it next week. Hot shit.
08 September 2005
After an astonishing talk to Hurley about speed and the migration back to campus activity, it is by amazing chance that today's re-run would include her thoughts. Enjoy.
(con'd from 22 Feb 04 - yup still lazy)
So I dump my whites on the bed, noting the smell of bleach and thinking that I’m weird for actually liking it. But it is a clean, nice feeling, I guess. I slip on the snow again and grab my clothes, which someone has left responsibly on the top of the dryers. I don’t blame them at all, and my stuff is actually warm for the dryer use.
People confuse me. I mean the nature of humans is the confusing thing. Because I worry about my stuff being gone, on the floor, disrespected. I would never do that to someone, but I have a rational, and entirely possible, fear of other people being that way. Which doesn’t really make sense. The only reason I think that way is because I have a natural tendency to think up things like that to do to people. I wouldn’t, ever, but because it pops into my head, I automatically assume that others would act on their whims.
It’s sort of a perspective, thing, probably. We can dissociate ourselves from the minds of others because we don’t understand them. “I know how I think, but because I don’t know how they think, I assume it’s different.” Interesting. I get some looks from people on Wisconsin Ave as I round the slippery slope, but I don’t fall this time.
I come back in and I’m hungry. Grab another piece of salami, noticing how much more salami is missing than yesterday. I wonder, apprehensively, if Novot ate that much or if it was me. But I only remember taking two slices, three including the one in my hand. I shouldn’t let Mikey make fun of Novot for the meat and cheese thing, even though I agree with him on a lot of it. It’s definitely funny, but some things are better left unsaid, and Novot has been really sensitive about money recently. I think chicken wings would be nice and greasy.
Experiment 14732:
Jerk Chicken Wing Confit(ti)
7 chicken wings, frozen
¼ cup lard, used once for pork shoulder
2 Tbs butter
4 Tbs flour
¼ cup Jerk sauce
Garlic Powder
Dad’s Crushed Pepper
Preheat oven to Broil, then 400°. Defrost the chicken wings by clearing the sink into the other one. Don’t bother to do the dishes because there is no dish soap. Put them onto a plate and run water over them, creating a small lake of frozen chicken and whatever else was in the sink. Hopefully, your roommate has dumped a lot of burger fat into the sink the day before and you can successfully mix the fattiness of three animals.
Melt the butter over low heat in a small saucepan. Add pepper, garlic powder and sauce. [This is Area Number 1 for improvement. The flour should’ve been put in here, before the sauce. It would’ve made for a nice roux. This would’ve eliminated the need for the lard. Damn.] Realize your mistake and pour contents into a bowl. Set aside.
Melt lard over high heat in same saucepan. Slowly mix flour in, trying to create roux. [Note: lard does not make roux.] When lard has reached smoke point, pour sauce mixture from bowl into saucepan. This will steam and explode much more than expected, but stir quickly. Reduce heat to low and stir continuously until mixture thickens to JELLO consistency, about 30 seconds.
Put defrosted chicken wings into a metal pie tin and spread sauce mix over meat. Cook for 30 minutes or until wings secrete clear liquid when poked with Ginsu 2000. The lard will separate out of mix and essentially fry the chicken. Serve hot with paper towel.
Experiment: Failure.
But overall success noted, with exceptional quantity and quality of knowledge base gained.
I add another working title to list: Recipes, Experiments, and Disasters: One man’s journey into greatness. Sounds very non-fiction, I think. Sell it to old people like that guy with the one word titles so they can give it to their grandkids to build character. But I think I’m going to stick with the cookbookish feel, because that’s a hook, for sure. So now I’m bored and sick to my stomach, because even failures need to be eaten. Usually.
Later on I was checking away messages and Egwene32 suddenly loves Sarah Vowell. So I check out her letter and it’s on patriotism. Meanwhile I’ve insulted Novot back into submission by bringing up Greenspan’s article on the front page of yesterday’s paper (submission meaning he’s plugged in again. reminds me of the Todd McFarlane Pearl Jam video with the guy at the computer screen, with wires out of his eyes and nose. Novot the Robot). Protectionism is a crutch for the middle class irrational mass, a mere blip on the radar of our historically stupid voters. A Thomas Jefferson comment really keys me off into a spin about the Electoral College and why he couldn’t place his confidence in the yeomen farmer. But damn it Vowell’s right about one thing. I am also and always will be a “despite” patriarch, but I’m too cynical to forgive Bush and Cheney for flagrant and useless idiocracy – a word I’ve learned from stupidity and for stupidity. But the country, whatever its flaws and faults, is based upon such a sound and incredible idea, the suffrage and agency of its masses over all else. The historical context of it is overwhelming. Makes me want to veg out and watch Trainspotting. Too bad I don’t smoke or do heroin.
A quick note on confitti…
Word of the day: confit (pronounced con-fee)[n.]French culinary term, meaning meat that has been salted and then cooked, finally cooled and preserved in it’s own fat.
Josh's Word of the Day which may or may not be an actual word: confitti (pronounced con-feet-y) [n.] A culinary term describing a meat stored in fat of an animal other than its own species. When he put the chicken wings in pork lard, he made confitti.
(con'd from 22 Feb 04 - yup still lazy)
So I dump my whites on the bed, noting the smell of bleach and thinking that I’m weird for actually liking it. But it is a clean, nice feeling, I guess. I slip on the snow again and grab my clothes, which someone has left responsibly on the top of the dryers. I don’t blame them at all, and my stuff is actually warm for the dryer use.
People confuse me. I mean the nature of humans is the confusing thing. Because I worry about my stuff being gone, on the floor, disrespected. I would never do that to someone, but I have a rational, and entirely possible, fear of other people being that way. Which doesn’t really make sense. The only reason I think that way is because I have a natural tendency to think up things like that to do to people. I wouldn’t, ever, but because it pops into my head, I automatically assume that others would act on their whims.
It’s sort of a perspective, thing, probably. We can dissociate ourselves from the minds of others because we don’t understand them. “I know how I think, but because I don’t know how they think, I assume it’s different.” Interesting. I get some looks from people on Wisconsin Ave as I round the slippery slope, but I don’t fall this time.
I come back in and I’m hungry. Grab another piece of salami, noticing how much more salami is missing than yesterday. I wonder, apprehensively, if Novot ate that much or if it was me. But I only remember taking two slices, three including the one in my hand. I shouldn’t let Mikey make fun of Novot for the meat and cheese thing, even though I agree with him on a lot of it. It’s definitely funny, but some things are better left unsaid, and Novot has been really sensitive about money recently. I think chicken wings would be nice and greasy.
Experiment 14732:
Jerk Chicken Wing Confit(ti)
7 chicken wings, frozen
¼ cup lard, used once for pork shoulder
2 Tbs butter
4 Tbs flour
¼ cup Jerk sauce
Garlic Powder
Dad’s Crushed Pepper
Preheat oven to Broil, then 400°. Defrost the chicken wings by clearing the sink into the other one. Don’t bother to do the dishes because there is no dish soap. Put them onto a plate and run water over them, creating a small lake of frozen chicken and whatever else was in the sink. Hopefully, your roommate has dumped a lot of burger fat into the sink the day before and you can successfully mix the fattiness of three animals.
Melt the butter over low heat in a small saucepan. Add pepper, garlic powder and sauce. [This is Area Number 1 for improvement. The flour should’ve been put in here, before the sauce. It would’ve made for a nice roux. This would’ve eliminated the need for the lard. Damn.] Realize your mistake and pour contents into a bowl. Set aside.
Melt lard over high heat in same saucepan. Slowly mix flour in, trying to create roux. [Note: lard does not make roux.] When lard has reached smoke point, pour sauce mixture from bowl into saucepan. This will steam and explode much more than expected, but stir quickly. Reduce heat to low and stir continuously until mixture thickens to JELLO consistency, about 30 seconds.
Put defrosted chicken wings into a metal pie tin and spread sauce mix over meat. Cook for 30 minutes or until wings secrete clear liquid when poked with Ginsu 2000. The lard will separate out of mix and essentially fry the chicken. Serve hot with paper towel.
Experiment: Failure.
But overall success noted, with exceptional quantity and quality of knowledge base gained.
I add another working title to list: Recipes, Experiments, and Disasters: One man’s journey into greatness. Sounds very non-fiction, I think. Sell it to old people like that guy with the one word titles so they can give it to their grandkids to build character. But I think I’m going to stick with the cookbookish feel, because that’s a hook, for sure. So now I’m bored and sick to my stomach, because even failures need to be eaten. Usually.
Later on I was checking away messages and Egwene32 suddenly loves Sarah Vowell. So I check out her letter and it’s on patriotism. Meanwhile I’ve insulted Novot back into submission by bringing up Greenspan’s article on the front page of yesterday’s paper (submission meaning he’s plugged in again. reminds me of the Todd McFarlane Pearl Jam video with the guy at the computer screen, with wires out of his eyes and nose. Novot the Robot). Protectionism is a crutch for the middle class irrational mass, a mere blip on the radar of our historically stupid voters. A Thomas Jefferson comment really keys me off into a spin about the Electoral College and why he couldn’t place his confidence in the yeomen farmer. But damn it Vowell’s right about one thing. I am also and always will be a “despite” patriarch, but I’m too cynical to forgive Bush and Cheney for flagrant and useless idiocracy – a word I’ve learned from stupidity and for stupidity. But the country, whatever its flaws and faults, is based upon such a sound and incredible idea, the suffrage and agency of its masses over all else. The historical context of it is overwhelming. Makes me want to veg out and watch Trainspotting. Too bad I don’t smoke or do heroin.
A quick note on confitti…
Word of the day: confit (pronounced con-fee)[n.]French culinary term, meaning meat that has been salted and then cooked, finally cooled and preserved in it’s own fat.
Josh's Word of the Day which may or may not be an actual word: confitti (pronounced con-feet-y) [n.] A culinary term describing a meat stored in fat of an animal other than its own species. When he put the chicken wings in pork lard, he made confitti.
07 September 2005
Summer Reruns
So I've been doing very poorly with this blog. I'm willing to admit it. But I think it's all due to a weird sort of thinkers block. I haven't been self-analyzing like usual. So, instead of new posts, I've decided to run never before seen episodes of previous lives of mine. This first one is a classic from about a year and a half ago. I was low on funds and decided to write a novel . . .
22 Feb 04
Possible titles to the book that will make me rich:
Better Living Through Culinary Experimentation
Josh Woodburn’s Adventures in Chefland
Maybe just Adventures in Chef Land. Kind of like a fairytale. Plus Josh Woodburn’s anything would be kind of megalomaniacal.
What My Away Message Doesn’t Tell you
I like this one, but AOL doesn’t deserve the kind of recognition that my extraordinary tale will give it. Plus Ted Turner is probably an asshole. But I don’t even know.
More coming, I guess. But those are pretty good. All it needs now is a really nice graphic on the front, and good font, because people don’t read books for content anymore, they just do it for style and prestige. Especially the Border’s gang, who know but don’t know, ya know?
I also thought about calling it
Rules for Experimental Cooking
but that sounded way to cookbookish. This chicken is making me sick. I think. I’m also extremely hungover. But cookbookish may be want I want. That way I can throw recipes into the mix, adding an exciting twist. Not really funny though. I guess I’m not looking for funny, just looking to express myself. But it’d be nice if I could sell this stuff to Bandai or something as science fiction and. No.
So let’s recount the events of last night? Nah. Nothing too exciting. But this morning is funny. So I wake up at 9 am to the sound of Novot plugged in again. I realize he’s not trying to be rude, but he yells into his microphone. Wakes me up every damn time. So I took my glasses off and went back to sleep. (I ended the night last night with a plate of food and goodness, using Tank Girl to put me to sleep. This works really well, but I always end up with my glasses broken. Not this time. Nice.) So I roll over, go back to sleep until high noon. Which in Wisconsin, in February, is a deep grayish brown, with flecks of cold as hell and dirty fuckin snow.
Drunken Stale Hotdogs While Watching Tank Girl at 4am
2 bun length hotdogs, preferably old
1¾ buns, stale
1 pickle
¼ cup Ketchup
Mustard
This is a very exciting dish. Start by finding the right hotdog buns behind the new ones. Novot claims the food Diane gave wasn’t picked out for him, but there are definitely a dozen buns in the front of the ones left over from the superbowl. Not to mention the six pounds of sliced meat and three pounds of cheese. When retrieving the hotdogs from the slime at the bottom of the meat bin, make sure to grab a slice of cheese and a couple of pieces of salami. The bags are already open for easy access.
Using a medium saucepan, bring some water to a boil over a high heat. Put the hotdogs in the water, careful to splash the boiling water onto your feet. This creates an unpleasant sensation. Steam the buns by setting a large, thin pizza pan with holes over the saucepan. This serves a double purpose. First, it steams the buns in the hotdog steam, giving them a full-bodied flavor. It also sets up a nasty burnt thumb for later on.
The next step is slicing the pickle. It obviously needs to be sliced long ways, so get the biggest knife you own. Carefully cleave the pickle down the center, creating a hotdog-esque presentation. Do not cut your fingers. Pull the hotdogs from the water using a small spoon, and drop them, one at a time, onto the floor. When you pick them up, knock the buns and hot pizza pan onto yourself and yell. Finally, burn your thumb badly on the pizza pan, and throw the hotdogs into the sink.
Plate the mixture of buns, hotdog, and pickle onto the plate so that the ketchup will not stay inside. Drop the ketchup bottle. Make sure to put a little extra ketchup on the side of the plate and the counter. Use the mustard bottle a chance to get yellow crusty goo on your burnt thumb, and then drop the bottle into your hot dog. Lick it clean and put everything away. Serves 1.
Copious amounts of water compliment this meal nicely.
So I wake up at twelve and immediately step in my plate of ketchup. I wipe my foot off and watch an hour of the history channel special on Angels with Novot. I fondly remember that Mikey has rented Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for PS2, and play that for about an hour. Now I’m starting to get hungry. Which reminds me that I have laundry in the dryers from yesterday.
Away Message for laundry retrieval:
Laundry, Day 2.
So you might remember the message yesterday about me being a weird urban laundry cowboy junkie duck hunter. Still true.
But also true is the fact that I fell yesterday in the snow and cracked my ass. So then I got drunk again. Which means when I picked my laundry up today from the dryers where they stayed overnight, I was yet again a weird hungovernope still drunk junkie cowboy hobo tramp, who needs to brush his teeth.
22 Feb 04
Possible titles to the book that will make me rich:
Better Living Through Culinary Experimentation
Josh Woodburn’s Adventures in Chefland
Maybe just Adventures in Chef Land. Kind of like a fairytale. Plus Josh Woodburn’s anything would be kind of megalomaniacal.
What My Away Message Doesn’t Tell you
I like this one, but AOL doesn’t deserve the kind of recognition that my extraordinary tale will give it. Plus Ted Turner is probably an asshole. But I don’t even know.
More coming, I guess. But those are pretty good. All it needs now is a really nice graphic on the front, and good font, because people don’t read books for content anymore, they just do it for style and prestige. Especially the Border’s gang, who know but don’t know, ya know?
I also thought about calling it
Rules for Experimental Cooking
but that sounded way to cookbookish. This chicken is making me sick. I think. I’m also extremely hungover. But cookbookish may be want I want. That way I can throw recipes into the mix, adding an exciting twist. Not really funny though. I guess I’m not looking for funny, just looking to express myself. But it’d be nice if I could sell this stuff to Bandai or something as science fiction and. No.
So let’s recount the events of last night? Nah. Nothing too exciting. But this morning is funny. So I wake up at 9 am to the sound of Novot plugged in again. I realize he’s not trying to be rude, but he yells into his microphone. Wakes me up every damn time. So I took my glasses off and went back to sleep. (I ended the night last night with a plate of food and goodness, using Tank Girl to put me to sleep. This works really well, but I always end up with my glasses broken. Not this time. Nice.) So I roll over, go back to sleep until high noon. Which in Wisconsin, in February, is a deep grayish brown, with flecks of cold as hell and dirty fuckin snow.
Drunken Stale Hotdogs While Watching Tank Girl at 4am
2 bun length hotdogs, preferably old
1¾ buns, stale
1 pickle
¼ cup Ketchup
Mustard
This is a very exciting dish. Start by finding the right hotdog buns behind the new ones. Novot claims the food Diane gave wasn’t picked out for him, but there are definitely a dozen buns in the front of the ones left over from the superbowl. Not to mention the six pounds of sliced meat and three pounds of cheese. When retrieving the hotdogs from the slime at the bottom of the meat bin, make sure to grab a slice of cheese and a couple of pieces of salami. The bags are already open for easy access.
Using a medium saucepan, bring some water to a boil over a high heat. Put the hotdogs in the water, careful to splash the boiling water onto your feet. This creates an unpleasant sensation. Steam the buns by setting a large, thin pizza pan with holes over the saucepan. This serves a double purpose. First, it steams the buns in the hotdog steam, giving them a full-bodied flavor. It also sets up a nasty burnt thumb for later on.
The next step is slicing the pickle. It obviously needs to be sliced long ways, so get the biggest knife you own. Carefully cleave the pickle down the center, creating a hotdog-esque presentation. Do not cut your fingers. Pull the hotdogs from the water using a small spoon, and drop them, one at a time, onto the floor. When you pick them up, knock the buns and hot pizza pan onto yourself and yell. Finally, burn your thumb badly on the pizza pan, and throw the hotdogs into the sink.
Plate the mixture of buns, hotdog, and pickle onto the plate so that the ketchup will not stay inside. Drop the ketchup bottle. Make sure to put a little extra ketchup on the side of the plate and the counter. Use the mustard bottle a chance to get yellow crusty goo on your burnt thumb, and then drop the bottle into your hot dog. Lick it clean and put everything away. Serves 1.
Copious amounts of water compliment this meal nicely.
So I wake up at twelve and immediately step in my plate of ketchup. I wipe my foot off and watch an hour of the history channel special on Angels with Novot. I fondly remember that Mikey has rented Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for PS2, and play that for about an hour. Now I’m starting to get hungry. Which reminds me that I have laundry in the dryers from yesterday.
Away Message for laundry retrieval:
Laundry, Day 2.
So you might remember the message yesterday about me being a weird urban laundry cowboy junkie duck hunter. Still true.
But also true is the fact that I fell yesterday in the snow and cracked my ass. So then I got drunk again. Which means when I picked my laundry up today from the dryers where they stayed overnight, I was yet again a weird hungovernope still drunk junkie cowboy hobo tramp, who needs to brush his teeth.
11 August 2005
Young Shakespeare
So I'm digging through old school stuff today to try and find some semblance of a transcript I can copy over to my medical school application. ( Which seems sort of like a double irony, doesn't it? Trying to copy grades? ) So I have my dresser taken apart, which is to say that I have a chair propped up underneath the long flat piece of wood with piles of laundry on it that used to be the back of my desk before I dropped it off the truck, in order to get at the original primary support ( which is my beat up filing drawer, turned on end, held together with duct tape and pictures of beautiful women cut from fashion magazines ). So I'm rummaging through all the classes that I don't remember shit from, and I find a poetry book I wrote in during middle school.
Turns out I was depressed from about birth to 2001.
THE MUTE BROTHER
The sweetness of the cherry tart
grows weary with the spiders art
Begining's finish, and ends the start
the hunters problems are those of smart
The friskiness of the daylight bear
impatient with the midnight hare
grows barren and to not the scare
of the land it seeks with cordial ware.
And yet, if not, the bear should say
"But what of this, the passing day?"
Rabbit's reply to the frank cliche,
"Yes, but friend, I'm on my way."
Hibernation did have its fun
business is not everyone
Still bears and bees seek not the sun
but honey from the hunters gun.
So rabbits kill without remorse
and rivers tend to change their course
when bears talk loud with their voice
of bark and bite and words of choice.
So today, young pupils, what has been learned
Besides the fact of a bare bear burned?
the animals and quite such yearned,
men themselves have death earned.
Hunt not thy friends of forest seat
Spare your brothers fancy treat
Cook the ones without the feet
Drop the gun, and spare the meat.
-Josh, who even at 11 was such a little veggie lefty radical. Or maybe its social commentary about American colonialism. Or its a broken hearted love poem. I can't tell.
Turns out I was depressed from about birth to 2001.
THE MUTE BROTHER
The sweetness of the cherry tart
grows weary with the spiders art
Begining's finish, and ends the start
the hunters problems are those of smart
The friskiness of the daylight bear
impatient with the midnight hare
grows barren and to not the scare
of the land it seeks with cordial ware.
And yet, if not, the bear should say
"But what of this, the passing day?"
Rabbit's reply to the frank cliche,
"Yes, but friend, I'm on my way."
Hibernation did have its fun
business is not everyone
Still bears and bees seek not the sun
but honey from the hunters gun.
So rabbits kill without remorse
and rivers tend to change their course
when bears talk loud with their voice
of bark and bite and words of choice.
So today, young pupils, what has been learned
Besides the fact of a bare bear burned?
the animals and quite such yearned,
men themselves have death earned.
Hunt not thy friends of forest seat
Spare your brothers fancy treat
Cook the ones without the feet
Drop the gun, and spare the meat.
-Josh, who even at 11 was such a little veggie lefty radical. Or maybe its social commentary about American colonialism. Or its a broken hearted love poem. I can't tell.
26 July 2005
Daily Cooking Tip: 7/26
1. Dont Suck.
2. Try not to pick up hot pan over chefs head and then scream like a girl and drop it on his head.
3. Don't suck as much as the guy with the truckers license who wishes he'd taken the job on the road. He's the pasta cook. He's a trucker.
4. Don't flip the scampi into the chefs coat pockets. As much as anyone would apprecate that ( especially at some kind of Japanese steak house ) the chef has seen it all already. He used to have clean coat pockets.
5. Don't suck at doing important things like:
-cooking
more later
2. Try not to pick up hot pan over chefs head and then scream like a girl and drop it on his head.
3. Don't suck as much as the guy with the truckers license who wishes he'd taken the job on the road. He's the pasta cook. He's a trucker.
4. Don't flip the scampi into the chefs coat pockets. As much as anyone would apprecate that ( especially at some kind of Japanese steak house ) the chef has seen it all already. He used to have clean coat pockets.
5. Don't suck at doing important things like:
-cooking
more later
20 July 2005
I'm late for work.
Again. It's my second day.
But I'm trying to keep up with the Roberges. Apparently that means putting really bad stories on the internet so that a LOT of people can find twenty dollars.
Quick updates on life, love, sex, God, school, money, drugs, the Cardinals, Internet dating, the current St. Louis gay club scene, BMW convertabiles, the coolest music in the world, Sri Lankan-British women that rock my world, why I'm a pedophile, and why I need more RAM soon to follow. But like I said; I'm late for work. Again. And it's my second fucking day.
junk
ps I can't decide if whoisjunk should be a really obscure reference to Jeopardy or if it's a blatant rip off of Mike Jones -- Mike Jones.
But I'm trying to keep up with the Roberges. Apparently that means putting really bad stories on the internet so that a LOT of people can find twenty dollars.
Quick updates on life, love, sex, God, school, money, drugs, the Cardinals, Internet dating, the current St. Louis gay club scene, BMW convertabiles, the coolest music in the world, Sri Lankan-British women that rock my world, why I'm a pedophile, and why I need more RAM soon to follow. But like I said; I'm late for work. Again. And it's my second fucking day.
junk
ps I can't decide if whoisjunk should be a really obscure reference to Jeopardy or if it's a blatant rip off of Mike Jones -- Mike Jones.
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