Beanie O'Brien

Dear Beanie, my neighbor Shauna's cat and a subject of my last post, passed away in the night. She was my companion when Shauna was out of town and often when she was in town. Beanie was eighteen years old. I loved her and I miss her terribly. Every time I eat chicken I will think of her almost manic obsession with the fowl. She had a good long life and touched everyone's hearts with her strong and engaging character. Rest In Peace Beanie O'Brien.

Aromas

Yes, It's catch up time in order to do penance for not posting.

To my nose skunk spray reminds me of coffee. I love coffee's aroma, but skunk musk is to be avoided mainly due to its adhesiveness. If one gets sprayed, and they only spray if you really threaten them, you are surely in trouble. It's a common smell across the Americas, usually at night when they are out and about. We have a family of skunks here in the neighborhood and I have seen them on my doorstep and nose to nose communicating with the neighbor's cats. The neighbor has an elderly cat called Beanie who wanders into my house freely and when her owner is away I leave the back door open so that she can come and go when she likes. Beanie popped in the other night and settled down on the chaise and after a couple of minutes I heard the pitter patter of Mister Independent Stew, her companion from home. I looked down to welcome Stew but instead it was a four foot long skunk who had followed Beanie's scent and had stopped where the cat had jumped up on the chaise. My room was silent, no TV, no music, unlike most nights and if there was human sound then surely the skunk would have stopped at the back door. But there it was with its magnificent white stripes on black wiry fur, sniffing around. Beanie was sitting upright in disbelief, this was her domain as far as furry creatures went. I didn't panic, I stayed still. I thought about it. I said in a soft voice " Who is that Beanie?". Skunk heard me and looked back at me with the same surprise I felt inside and it made a one-eighty and was out and back along the path it took here. I cautiously checked the kitchen before I followed making as much noise as possible, but that piece of fluff was long gone and I put the TV on as a preventative measure.

I cooked Roast Beef with Yorkshire Pudding last night and as the meat was slowly charring I enjoyed the familiar fragrance of feasting. Americans cherish Thanksgiving as The Big Feast but in my family Christmas is always The Great Holiday. This year I was able to travel to my parent's home, in view of pelicans drop diving above the Atlantic, and shared a lovely Christmas with them beach-bound in soporific Florida. I embrace sentimentality as remedy for the hard shelled life we face these days, and feel that it has much more value than many of my peers would admit. This was a sentimental time in the best sense. On Christmas Day I cooked the family meal of roasted turkey and a roast duck, and loin of pork with prunes, for the twelve of us. It would never have gone so smoothly but for the able and intelligent Matthew Mills who sous cheffed for me and who on more than one occassion second guessed me. Mario Batali should be so lucky. Matthew was the only one allowed in the kitchen besides me. On other days I visited my favorite fish shop in the United States, Hull's Seafood, and in that week I made moules marinieres for them, and for the first time shucked two dozen oysters for my parents, at table. We also enjoyed shrimp and other aquatic delicacies.

After New Year's our friend Marissa stopped by with Champagne Comtes de Dampieres to toast it with a bang and we had a pleasant dinner featuring Flank Steak and a simple salad with it.

My Birthday in January was a fun time when friends and relatives feted me for a week, no less. We went to Woolgrower's one night and had a party the next night, both in Bakersfield, courtesy of the fabulous Diazes. Matt made me his perfect Shrimp Risotto for dinner on the actual day, after a lunch of more moules at Figaro with friend Marissa. Friend Shauna treated us to Korean barbecue down there in Koreatown.

Well ... I think I've explained myself a bit. It has been a beautiful time. Is beauty best experienced alone? I think not.

Francophilia

There are times when one steps back and realizes that contemporaneous conjunctions from disparate sources make for a golden time in one's life. At this moment I am stripping out an ornate and beautiful French style Fantasy Lighting chandelier for their website and listening to the current, gorgeous, melancholy, Radiohead album. John Richardson's long awaited vivid third episode of his Picasso biography rests on a table nearby, where inside its covers the period lives vividly once again. And what with Ratatouille and the very charming Paris Je t'Aime to watch repeatedly on DVD I have once again turned sweet and nostalgic for France.

Internet radio is one of the best things to happen in my time and I often listen on Itunes to Artistes Disparus de la Chansons Francophone the station from chanteurs.org while I work. Broadcast from Paris, they play music by artists from the advent of audio recordings to the present day with the proviso that the artists must be either defunct or deceased. It's fabulous to cook along to and takes me on a wander down fresh Gallic paths.

I am very thankful for my life and the world around me. I feel very blessed no matter what comes my way. I know many people carry heavy burdens and suffer indignities, pains, and poverty, undeserved and incessant, and it was with shock that I read this news on the sale of a huge truffle at an obscene price of close to $350,000. While all proceeds of the auction were given to charity there are questions. No doubt the winning bidders will add value to the truffle as they carve it up and parlay that price many times by offering it in thousand dollar meals for those who will pay for a chance to be part of this sensation. A little bit of truffle goes a long way. I love fresh truffles and once in a blue moon to taste one is a great sensual luxury, with or without a price tag. Its flavor is not commodifiable (see this post). I have to ask, how many in need could be fed with an outright monetary gift such as this let alone its multiplied value when it gets to the table? How could the cure for AIDS or diabetes or cancer be sped on by such amounts? How many could be housed or saved from the streets with the wise stewardship of such a gift? When there are so many triumphs in the world this is something of a disappointment. A freely given gift from the earth stamped with a bland and outrageous price tag.

I would like to thank my friend Denny, who, as Winfernal, posts his ever eloquent and illuminating comments. Also, I appreciate the kind comments from Sean and from James. By the way my ribs are much better thank you - never thought I would take up knitting!

Good hearts can help save the world. Let's eat, my place, or in Gascony!

Cannery Row

Despite some really tough pain, I am in Monterey, California. All I have to do is sit still and go slow, and, although walks on the gorgeous, uneven, kelp and jelly littered, spongy, sand beach, are out of the question, sitting upright and chauffeured in a fancy car's orthopedic seat is the perfect corset (albeit straight jacket). The ever changing, majestic California scenery entertains with its shifting light, plentiful vineyards and pastures, its grand and mesmerizing vistas. Probably shouldn't have gone on a road trip so soon after my mishap but, hey, the company is great, it's Steinbeck country, and I really needed a medicinal change of scenery. Besides, I am a fan of canned sardines and this trip is unlikely to happen again soon and has been on the roster for months.

Today, Sunday, is our last day on the Monterey Peninsula. I was born and brought up by the sea and it always resonates in a special way for me. We came up to accompany friend Marissa on the six hour drive from LA and to escort her to a benefit for the Center For Photographic Arts, in Carmel which was held at the rather grand Lodge at Pebble Beach. The canapés were just fine and the banquet food was good, a customary goat cheese stuffed, herbed, frenchified chicken breast accompanied by peeled asparagus and, a "that ain't no risotto baby so next time call it rice". The wines were local and delicious and plenty of decorative gazillionaires were on hand. Speeches were thankfully borderline boring for the most part. We have had perfect weather all weekend, clear, sunny and cool. That evening, looking out over the links onto the secluded bay, and a short walk along the rugged coast alongside the eighteenth hole provided extra magic. So this is how the other eighth lives.

Personally I prefer grit to gloss, and yesterday we picked up a copy of Cannery Row, in the old Hovden Cannery, one of the preserved and converted structures that house Monterey Bay Aquarium. Published by John Steinbeck in 1946, Cannery Row is a feast of rich prose. I like the conceit of having purchased a book in the very place that is its subject. If you had asked Steinbeck to project back in '46 what was likely to be the future of Ocean View Avenue (renamed for its nickname - Cannery Row), I wonder if he could have foreseen Knut Hovden's Cannery housing anything but still more sardines and an even fouler smell than existed then. The Aquarium is truly incredible. Even if one were to see only the Sunfishes, slipping like huge masks from a Greek tragedy under and over grotesque Hammerheads and Great White in the enormous new million-gallon, seamlessly windowed tank, or watch the Otters writhe, twist and sunbathe in another wing, or reflect on the only living artificial kelp forest complete with tidal pull, one would walk away purified and enriched. I must confess that yellowtails swimming and anchovies schooling put sashimi in mind on more than one occasion during the visit.

Cannery Row currently bears scant resemblance to the vital and vivid industrial fishing port that once occupied this part of the wharf. Now with the usual neat restaurants and smart lodgings that genericize so many great historic American locations, it is hard to conjure Steinbeck's inventions outside his own poetic wordplay. But The Bay, which is the site of one of the world's deepest underwater canyons, and its hugging peninsula, is still very beautiful despite the heavy tourist population which began its encroachment in the 1860's. The Monterey Sardine industry destroyed itself in the mid fifties from over fishing, and The Bay is now a conservancy. Here is a very good potted visual history.

The closer you get to San Francisco the better the cooking gets and here you are but an hour or two away. Very good breakfast in Carmel, at The Cottage, this morning with shopping at the Plaza and Wilkes Bashford (my pocketbook unscathed), but apart from our pleasant waterfront domicile, The Best Western Beach Resort, at Monterey adjacent Seaside, and The Great Pacific crashing just beyond the room's patio to lullaby me to sleep each night, a great memory will be Friday night's dinner at Monterey's Fish House providing a good take on Bouillabaisse, which I chose over their Cioppino. Subtly flavored with saffron and just about every fish or crustacean on the menu I prequelled it with six surprisingly huge Hama-Hama Oysters on the half shell from Washington State. I prefer smaller oysters both texturally and for their subtler, sweeter flavor but these did not disappoint. All our food was nicely cooked and the lack of pretension, coupled with the spartan dining room made it the perfect no nonsense venue to ease us out of the SoCal lag and bL.A.h we brought with us. The staff were all stressed out but completely pleasant and we had a great evening. Here is yelp's review and here is the general Google key.

This Monday morning, back in Los Angeles to gray skies and chilly weather, I realize I could have used another day there in Monterey, prostrate, dozing to the blue Pacific's rhythm and wave crash, reading Steinbeck's richly poetic novel in place.

Ribs

Laid up in bed for a second day, having taking a tumble and cracking a rib or two. Stay still and do nothing is the way to a quick heal with a full dose of ibuprofen every eight hours and plenty of sleep too. Last week I cooked pork ribs for the first time in over a year. I don't mean to suggest that that was in any way an auger of Sunday night's mishap but I suppose if life is at all themed these two events so close together provide at least an amusing coincidence. For one thing, pork ribs, slow cooked, with a dry rub of pepper and garlic and mixed herbs, and a little stock added at the end of the baking, are a wonderfully tasty meal and full of pleasure and nutrition. The remaining juices are reduced with some added stock, cheap balsamic vinegar, worcestershire sauce and sugar, and provides a piquant take on traditional barbecue sauce when drizzled over the sliced ribs. On the other hand, this injurious fall, though unavoidable, is definitely not to my taste.

I want to say here that I mourn the passing of a great soul on October 21st. I count myself fortunate to have know the painter R.B. Kitaj back in the late seventies and early eighties. I broke bread with him and his then girlfriend and now since deceased wife Sandra, on several memorable occasions in London during that time. His great spirit and keen intellect made an enduring impression on me and he leaves an artistic legacy that I believe has not been fully understood in our time. His was an art of great invention, and the greatest and most difficult subjects which he was not afraid to address. Though he was advanced in years I count his passing as a great loss and I am sure I will be lacking the nourishment that his new art has always provided.

Deviled Morsels

I am always captivated by Love is the Devil, a most excellent film about the painter Francis Bacon. which I watched on DVD three times in the background while I was doing other stuff today. It has food content in that there are oyster slurping scenes set in a seafood restaurant: Bacon was a nightly regular at the now closed Wheeler's of St. James, traditionally a rich man's haunt. In print, I just finished The Devil's Picnic by Taras Grescoe, a wonderful journey exploring taboo food, drink and plant life. And I'm on to a new book, by Michael Pollan, The Omnivore's Delight, which is well written and interesting but far less engaging than Picnic mainly because Grescoe's prose is illuminatingly precise and economical but personally engaging unlike Pollen's fan dancish style, though it is full of fascinating facts, and, reader friendly. I look forward to Grescoe's new book on seafood. Picnic and Love are different media and it it amuses me to join the two in this entry as the word Devil figures in both titles. They both speak to life on the edge and are about dark and disturbing things.

Yesterday my mother told me she was going to make 200 deviled eggs for a wedding. At her age she should not be making eggs deviled , or sainted for that matter, but for her own family. And especially not the deviled ones since she is a devout Christian.

The Eternal Sunset

Yes, it is another national holiday and my desktop is packed full of open Adobe CS3 applications as usual. So I labor through Labor Day. I am thankful for the work and the fact that the power has kept up today. The air conditioner is cranking as we suffer yet another freak heatwave with temperatures of 100°f and climbing. In my own block we have had two four-hour power outages in a two day period. As a result I enjoyed an impromptu stoop party with the neighbors and discovered that Roni and Nina shared a fascination with me for things cuilinary. It was a pleasant, spontaneous, event and took the strain out of the situation. A strange silence pervades the air in these blackouts, one might be in Montana. I was still able to cook, but I'll get to that as you read on.

Such is life in The City of Los Angeles, a behemoth beset by small town logistics and blinkered, questionable, politics, growing way too fast for its feeble infrastructure. I first came to Los Angeles in 1976 and it was a very different place. With smog that you could cut with a knife, despite a quarter of the population we have now, it was then considered a provincial, albeit vast backwater where hedonists ruled. Large patches of open space still existed down the coast and even more so inland, all gobbled up now in the insane and continuous lebensraum. Film, Television and the Music Industry ruled the roost. No place stayed open after 10pm on The Sunset Strip apart from Ben Frank's Coffee Shop (Mel's took over the location and revamped the building) and Canter's on Fairfax in the general neighborhood. There wasn't much "culture". All that changed in the early 80s when some things were lost and some things gained, mainly tons of people who came for newly implanted industries especially the expansion of the military aerospace industry, and the resultant stress on the resources came with it. They brought their love of preservation to a town that chewed up and spat out after each bite. Live in The Now and Fix it Tomorrow Because it Might Never Come. Los Angeles is what it is, and it will be something else tomorrow. I love it for that vitality if nothing else, but it is Promethian in the worst sense.

My first taste of the southwest came with a trip to Phoenix, Arizona in 1976 with my family on one of their Grand Tours. My parents' connections in the west were limited, though they took their honeymoon here years before. They visited Paramount Studios as a guest of one of its executives and met Cecil B. DeMille, riding crop and all, on the set of The Ten Commandments. They also met Hitchcock, Stewart and gang on the remarkable set of Rear Window. Our trip in '76 was extensive, beginning in Phoenix and ending in Seattle, with the LA area, Grand Canyon, Portland and The Cascades all thrown in along the way. One of my most vivid impressions of being Someplace West came within two days of landing in the dry 100 degree heat of Arizona. It was also a shock: in the parking lot of Smitty's, in Scottsdale, a now defunct general goods chain, I locked eyes with a man who walked by me with his young daughter wearing a holstered revolver strapped to his waist cowboy style. The law in Arizona, a hangover from the olden days, made a lot of sense to gun lovers - you could not carry a concealed weapon, it had to be in plain sight, so that anyone had a chance if a fracas developed near or around you. The Southwest has gentrified itself over the last 30 years, but that is but a thin veneer over the ruff tuff frontier underbelly. Its best to remember that this is still boom or bust territory, and that includes Los Angeles.

If you picked up a copy of Sunset Magazine in those days, which seemed to be a ubiquitous coffee table staple, you might have thought that the west had been civilized with the goldrush. Gracious haciendas and majestic getaways, from Wyoming to Maui enhanced its pages and helped to maintain the staid fifties flavor the magazine still possessed in the seventies. Sunset- Living in The West is its full title, and it has stayed true to its purpose. If any magazine is successful its partly because it offers up instant pleasures. If one can't afford a holiday to Bora Bora one picks up a copy of Condé Nast Traveller and one is immediately transported in one's own head to distant exotic shores. Lackluster social life? Town and Country will give you a glimpse of your future with the glitterati. Lousy Cook? Gourmet will give you a taste of what super food is like. Jennifer Aniston not currently your friend? Get People magazine and it will give you tips on how to be her friend when you eventually do meet her. All this for a few dollars and a savings of thousands. Life by proxy.

Sunset is a special magazine that truly reflects middle class western life and it has kept up with the times. It has retained all those cozy traits of gracious living but these days it also offers up articles on some of the darker and more difficult things about living out here, such as the besieged ecology. In keeping with the dignified but never stuffy tone each article builds hope in every sentence. Sunset has become very sophisticated, by any European standard, and even more of a pleasure to browse as the west matures like a rebellious adolescent, around us. I have taken a subscription to it once again and eagerly await its monthly arrival.

Amongst the getaways and ideas for better living are the food pages which always offer a handful of nice recipes. This month's edition shows off varieties of the pears available out here with correspondingly luscious, sensual recipes to show them off. But it is the article on New Mexico chiles that caught my eye in amongst the How to Make a Pathway and How to Make a Fountain articles. I am not a connoisseur of chiles, mainly because I don't like too much pepper heat in my dishes, whether they be Indian, Thai or Mexican, but the article assured me that Anaheim chiles were mild provided you de-seeded them properly, and the recipe for Green Chile Enchiladas seemed just too mouthwatering to keep pagebound. It would not be fair to copy out the recipe here but follow the links and all is revealed. I went to market and bought 2 pounds of fresh Anaheim Chiles which I roasted on the open gas flame (this recipe calls for skin on chiles) and roasted a chicken and used its stock in the sauce. My only additions were a finely chopped carmelized onion and a little cilantro to fleck more green and flavor into the sauce. The results were fabulous and mildly peppery and I will make it again. Comfort food to be sure. Thank you, you people at Sunset Magazine, and may you comfort me on into my sunset years.

(While writing this entry we suffered a 12 hour power failure last night and really suffered for it all round).