I always run into the theory of diminishing details when I try to remember how I cooked something.
A couple of weeks ago, Karen made “40-Clove Chicken.” It was very good, and my roots told me that “40-Clove Beef” would be even better. I went to Price Club and got a couple of big old chuck roasts, onions and garlic.
At home, I made it. It was very good. Karen remarked how good it was, the first night we had it. While I was making it, I thought I should write down the details. The technique, so to speak. But I didn’t, for the very good reason that I believed I wouldn’t forget. It was not a complicated technique, and it would be easy to visualize in the future.
Two weeks later, there is one more container of it left in the freezer. I want to make it again, but I am running into the theory of diminishing details. When you are cooking something new, particularly something simple, you think you should write it down, but you don’t because it’s so easy. Tomorrow, you could do it again exactly the same way. But then tomorrow becomes a couple days, then a week, then two weeks.
And now I can’t remember: did I use flour? I think I did, but I remember at about that same time I watched Ina Garten cook Boeuf Bourguignon, and I think she used flour. Maybe she did, and I didn’t. Maybe this time I will use flour. Maybe not. I guess “40-Clove Beef” will just come out different this time. That should be the title of my next cookbook: “Different the Next Time.” And the recipes will all have "This Time" in the title, like "40-Clove Beef This Time." A recipe is just a starting place anyway.
February 27, 2007
February 23, 2007
Service interruptions?
I am moving my site to another service provider, beginning now, and there may be interruptions in access for a day or two. FYI. See you on the other side.
February 22, 2007
Googling C-Rations
It was years ago, probably 1995, when I realized how powerful the Internet was as a research tool. I needed instruction in tying a Windsor knot in a necktie, and so I searched Alta Vista for “Windsor knot.” I got 47 returns for sites about Windsor knots.
In that instant, I knew the world had changed. I have retrieved lots more information since then, some of it truly arcane, and I am amazed again, every time, at the power of this technology. This morning, it happened again, but this time was another leap into new space. After this morning, I believe there is no bit of information, in all the history of humanity, that can’t be found in 10 seconds or less on the Internet.
I couldn’t remember the name of the small, can-opener tool that we used in the Army to open C-Rations cans. I carried this tool on my keychain for years after I got out of the Army, because it was one of the handiest tools imaginable. But somewhere along the way, I lost it. I have missed it ever since.
I hadn’t actively thought about it for awhile, though, until I was doing some menial task and realized I needed a – a what? This tool, but I couldn’t remember the name. It was a name I thought I’d never forget, like who sang “Wild Thang.” It was a very short name, more like Army nomenclature than an actual name. I was in a hurry, about to leave the house, so the moment passed. Then, later in the day, I remembered I was going to Google something. What was it? Ah. “C-Rations.”
I punched it in, hit “I’m Feeling Lucky,” and there was an Australian site about C-Rations, with photos and descriptions of C-Rations as being better to eat than nothing at all, but barely.
I scrolled down, and there it was: the P38, and a photo of it that pierced me with nostalgia. A flat, rectangular piece of gray steel, and flanged to it, a curved blade. The whole thing, not as large as a large paper clip.
A quote from the site:
“The tool acquired its name from the 38 punctures required to open a C-ration can, and from the boast that it performed with the speed of the World War II P-38 fighter plane.”
I don’t know about the 38 punctures – I never counted – but it is a fact that the P38 performed with the speed of the fighter plane by the same name. If you are a camper, and I did a lot of camping some years ago, the P38 saved more time and space than any other single item in camp.
Another quote:
“Yes, the P-38 opened cans, but it did much more. Any soldier will tell you that."
And any civilian who was a soldier will tell you that. I sure could have used the thing this morning.
In that instant, I knew the world had changed. I have retrieved lots more information since then, some of it truly arcane, and I am amazed again, every time, at the power of this technology. This morning, it happened again, but this time was another leap into new space. After this morning, I believe there is no bit of information, in all the history of humanity, that can’t be found in 10 seconds or less on the Internet.
I couldn’t remember the name of the small, can-opener tool that we used in the Army to open C-Rations cans. I carried this tool on my keychain for years after I got out of the Army, because it was one of the handiest tools imaginable. But somewhere along the way, I lost it. I have missed it ever since.
I hadn’t actively thought about it for awhile, though, until I was doing some menial task and realized I needed a – a what? This tool, but I couldn’t remember the name. It was a name I thought I’d never forget, like who sang “Wild Thang.” It was a very short name, more like Army nomenclature than an actual name. I was in a hurry, about to leave the house, so the moment passed. Then, later in the day, I remembered I was going to Google something. What was it? Ah. “C-Rations.”
I punched it in, hit “I’m Feeling Lucky,” and there was an Australian site about C-Rations, with photos and descriptions of C-Rations as being better to eat than nothing at all, but barely.
I scrolled down, and there it was: the P38, and a photo of it that pierced me with nostalgia. A flat, rectangular piece of gray steel, and flanged to it, a curved blade. The whole thing, not as large as a large paper clip.
A quote from the site:
“The tool acquired its name from the 38 punctures required to open a C-ration can, and from the boast that it performed with the speed of the World War II P-38 fighter plane.”
I don’t know about the 38 punctures – I never counted – but it is a fact that the P38 performed with the speed of the fighter plane by the same name. If you are a camper, and I did a lot of camping some years ago, the P38 saved more time and space than any other single item in camp.
Another quote:
“Yes, the P-38 opened cans, but it did much more. Any soldier will tell you that."
And any civilian who was a soldier will tell you that. I sure could have used the thing this morning.
February 16, 2007
Anna Nicole Smith
Molly Ivins, a nationally respected, even beloved, journalist and civil rights advocate, dies. Two weeks later, Anna Nicole Smith, a busty blonde and former Playboy “Playmate of the Year” dies. Which death gets more media coverage? By far, Anna Nicole Smith’s. Does this make sense?
Well, yes, but we shouldn’t fret about it. Society is not going to be dragged down a rathole by media attention to Anna Nicole Smith. It’s just the media codes at work, and in all of human history, whenever it has come to the codes of Sex vs. Writer, Sex has triumphed every time.
It’s sort of like Madonna, who for a long time was the ranking media codes expert among women celebrities. This is how expert she was: when a person, doing something else while the TV was on, heard the name, “Madonna,” that person would reflexively glance at the TV. Why? Because Madonna had conditioned people to wonder, “What has she done now?” That media code is called Novelty, which is impossible for people, who are naturally curious, to ignore. Madonna cultivated Novelty to a science.
Anna Nicole was no media expert, and she couldn’t cultivate crabgrass. She just took off her clothes and posed for Playboy, and let her considerable body do the rest. That’s all she had to do to become famous.
Famous enough, anyway. Sex is the oldest media code in the human book, and millions and millions of people, including millions who wouldn’t want to admit it, have given more than casual attention to pictures of Anna Nicole Smith’s body. But if you polled the population, you might find 10 million people who loved Anna Nicole enough to tape all the coverage and swoon over her baby and the paternity battle, which as of 30 minutes ago was six claimants.
Taken as a percentage of the American population of 300 million, 10 million is 3.3 percent, meaning 96.7 percent of Americans aren’t glued to cable TV’s “Anna Nicole Watch.” Some of it splashes into the general media, because of the power of the Prominence media code (“big names make news”) and giving the impression that the audience for this fare is bigger than it actually is.
It’s only 10 million, but enough to make ANS famous. Ten million sets of eyeballs was enough for cable TV to sell advertisers on an ANS reality television show that was nothing more than cameras following her through her day. Yes, I know, something like that does sound like a scream that the end of civilization is nigh. Just remember what the other 96.7 percent were doing, and even the 3.3 decided in only a couple of years that they had seen enough (the death knell for any television series, whatever media codes it employs) of Anna Nicole’s reality.
All of television – and all media, actually – is an exercise in the power of small numbers. A prime time sitcom with a Nielsen rating of 17 will make big media news and millions in ad revenues, even though 83 percent of the “television universe” was doing something else. It’s silly to think that “we” are being devalued as a civilization because of anything Anna Nicole Smith did, even dying. “We” is the most misused word in the media-public debate. The New York Times did a story about renewed interest in a book about ANS titled “Great Big Beautiful Blonde,” as if readers coast to coast were lined up around the block. The new printing: 15,000 copies.
It’s sad that Anna Nicole died at the age of 39. She didn’t do anything to anybody. She just gave the 3.3 what they needed, and if the rest of us fussed about that, it was good publicity for her. Among the 96.7, I think our sighs at the news were genuine, a legitimate reaction to yet another media code. Then we went on to something else.
Well, yes, but we shouldn’t fret about it. Society is not going to be dragged down a rathole by media attention to Anna Nicole Smith. It’s just the media codes at work, and in all of human history, whenever it has come to the codes of Sex vs. Writer, Sex has triumphed every time.
It’s sort of like Madonna, who for a long time was the ranking media codes expert among women celebrities. This is how expert she was: when a person, doing something else while the TV was on, heard the name, “Madonna,” that person would reflexively glance at the TV. Why? Because Madonna had conditioned people to wonder, “What has she done now?” That media code is called Novelty, which is impossible for people, who are naturally curious, to ignore. Madonna cultivated Novelty to a science.
Anna Nicole was no media expert, and she couldn’t cultivate crabgrass. She just took off her clothes and posed for Playboy, and let her considerable body do the rest. That’s all she had to do to become famous.
Famous enough, anyway. Sex is the oldest media code in the human book, and millions and millions of people, including millions who wouldn’t want to admit it, have given more than casual attention to pictures of Anna Nicole Smith’s body. But if you polled the population, you might find 10 million people who loved Anna Nicole enough to tape all the coverage and swoon over her baby and the paternity battle, which as of 30 minutes ago was six claimants.
Taken as a percentage of the American population of 300 million, 10 million is 3.3 percent, meaning 96.7 percent of Americans aren’t glued to cable TV’s “Anna Nicole Watch.” Some of it splashes into the general media, because of the power of the Prominence media code (“big names make news”) and giving the impression that the audience for this fare is bigger than it actually is.
It’s only 10 million, but enough to make ANS famous. Ten million sets of eyeballs was enough for cable TV to sell advertisers on an ANS reality television show that was nothing more than cameras following her through her day. Yes, I know, something like that does sound like a scream that the end of civilization is nigh. Just remember what the other 96.7 percent were doing, and even the 3.3 decided in only a couple of years that they had seen enough (the death knell for any television series, whatever media codes it employs) of Anna Nicole’s reality.
All of television – and all media, actually – is an exercise in the power of small numbers. A prime time sitcom with a Nielsen rating of 17 will make big media news and millions in ad revenues, even though 83 percent of the “television universe” was doing something else. It’s silly to think that “we” are being devalued as a civilization because of anything Anna Nicole Smith did, even dying. “We” is the most misused word in the media-public debate. The New York Times did a story about renewed interest in a book about ANS titled “Great Big Beautiful Blonde,” as if readers coast to coast were lined up around the block. The new printing: 15,000 copies.
It’s sad that Anna Nicole died at the age of 39. She didn’t do anything to anybody. She just gave the 3.3 what they needed, and if the rest of us fussed about that, it was good publicity for her. Among the 96.7, I think our sighs at the news were genuine, a legitimate reaction to yet another media code. Then we went on to something else.
February 06, 2007
Molly Ivins
I hate losing Molly Ivins. She was a Texas woman the likes of which you don’t run across often. She grew up in ritzy River Oaks in Houston, but she only grew up there. Her blood came from somewhere else. Her mind was sharp, her environment privileged, her perspective worldly. But wherever in the world she went, her feet stayed stuck up to the ankles in the mud of a Brazos River bank. Wherever she closed her eyes, she saw faded-denim Texas sky.
Never met Molly Ivins. But I’ve known Texas women like her. In “I’m from Texas, Too,” Ray Benson sings: “There’s no mistaking the brand.” And so I wish I had. Met her. Been friends. Talked about stuff. Driven some Texas highways, slow and with a cooler in the back. Closest I got to her was probably the late A.C. Greene, who went to Abilene High School with my mother. Later A.C. ran the Abilene Book Store on Cypress Street before he went on to greater things in Texas literature.
I know Molly and A.C. talked about Texas, and about writing. Couldn’t not have. A.C. and I conversed a time or two as well. Some years ago, when he had a heart transplant, he wrote a magazine piece about it. He said that in Texas at that time, heart transplant candidates were nervous because of a shortage of donors. It seemed that survivors wouldn’t allow the hearts of their lost loved ones to be taken, because a person’s soul resides in his heart, and they just couldn’t give up the loved one’s soul.
So, A.C. wrote, the Texas Legislature passed a law proclaiming that a person’s soul does not reside in the heart, but in the brain. I thought that was one of the funniest things I had ever read. Molly made a career of the daily hilarity in The Lege, as she called it, and I thought about how many times she sat down to write, stunned but tickled, at the end of a Lege session.
I wrote about the heart thing, too. The mission of the Texas Legislature, I wrote, is to remove any situation that would require a resident of the State of Texas to have to think. It could get a thinker from California in trouble. Stopped by a state trooper for speeding, and the trooper says, “Okay, sir, where does the soul reside?” “I don’t know,” says the speeding thinker, “all over the body, probably.” And off the thinker goes, escorted by the trooper to the Callahan County JP for undue process.
I worried, behind the safety of the California border, about the Lege being so pre-emptive. I thought the soul probably was rationed throughout the body, large percentages in the heart and brain, yes, but some also in the spleen, and pancreas, eyes, hair, toes, each toe possessing its teeny ration of soul.
Challenged by the Callahan County JP on this, I would simply call Molly Ivins to the stand. She was Texas soul from head to toe. Now she’s not there any more, and I know with certainty that something is missing in Texas. It is not Texas that is diminished; nothing could do that. It is Texans that have been diminished, sure as hell. One less among us who close our eyes and see that sky. Molly is a ground star, snuffed out.
Never met Molly Ivins. But I’ve known Texas women like her. In “I’m from Texas, Too,” Ray Benson sings: “There’s no mistaking the brand.” And so I wish I had. Met her. Been friends. Talked about stuff. Driven some Texas highways, slow and with a cooler in the back. Closest I got to her was probably the late A.C. Greene, who went to Abilene High School with my mother. Later A.C. ran the Abilene Book Store on Cypress Street before he went on to greater things in Texas literature.
I know Molly and A.C. talked about Texas, and about writing. Couldn’t not have. A.C. and I conversed a time or two as well. Some years ago, when he had a heart transplant, he wrote a magazine piece about it. He said that in Texas at that time, heart transplant candidates were nervous because of a shortage of donors. It seemed that survivors wouldn’t allow the hearts of their lost loved ones to be taken, because a person’s soul resides in his heart, and they just couldn’t give up the loved one’s soul.
So, A.C. wrote, the Texas Legislature passed a law proclaiming that a person’s soul does not reside in the heart, but in the brain. I thought that was one of the funniest things I had ever read. Molly made a career of the daily hilarity in The Lege, as she called it, and I thought about how many times she sat down to write, stunned but tickled, at the end of a Lege session.
I wrote about the heart thing, too. The mission of the Texas Legislature, I wrote, is to remove any situation that would require a resident of the State of Texas to have to think. It could get a thinker from California in trouble. Stopped by a state trooper for speeding, and the trooper says, “Okay, sir, where does the soul reside?” “I don’t know,” says the speeding thinker, “all over the body, probably.” And off the thinker goes, escorted by the trooper to the Callahan County JP for undue process.
I worried, behind the safety of the California border, about the Lege being so pre-emptive. I thought the soul probably was rationed throughout the body, large percentages in the heart and brain, yes, but some also in the spleen, and pancreas, eyes, hair, toes, each toe possessing its teeny ration of soul.
Challenged by the Callahan County JP on this, I would simply call Molly Ivins to the stand. She was Texas soul from head to toe. Now she’s not there any more, and I know with certainty that something is missing in Texas. It is not Texas that is diminished; nothing could do that. It is Texans that have been diminished, sure as hell. One less among us who close our eyes and see that sky. Molly is a ground star, snuffed out.
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