Food Flash

Posted on May 22, 2017 by John Swinburn

My Sunday was, by and large, a happy event. I logged three beers at the Flying Saucer in Little Rock, had a nice lunch at the same place, and enjoyed a scoop of ice cream at Kilwin’s, a place to which my wife (and I) has taken a liking. The downside to the day was our return home, whereupon I discovered that the pork spare ribs I had planned to smoke the next morning were beyond spoiled; they were rank. That notwithstanding, we forged ahead. We drove to a couple of stores nearby and finally found a replacement. I’ll smoke the fresher, more pleasingly fragrant spare ribs early this morning, beginning at first light. Last night, I slathered them in mustard, generously peppered them with a favorite rub, and wrapped them in foil and plastic wrap to soak up the spices from the rub overnight. My plan is to remove the foil and wrap and smoke them for three hours, with an occasional spritz of spiced apple juice. Then, I’ll take them out, cover them with a mix of brown sugar and butter, and wrap them in foil and continue cooking them for another two hours. After that, I’ll remove them from the smoker, drain the juices into a ready bowl, and return them to the smoker for an hour to let them develop a moderately dry “bark” of smoke and pork-juice-soaked brown sugar. My only concern with this process is that the final product may be a tad sweeter than I’d like. I’m willing to risk it; my wife is the real fan of spare ribs, after all, so these will be her baby (but I’ll eat some, just to be polite…;-)).

 

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Foods of England

Posted on May 21, 2017 by John Swinburn

I stumbled across a website this morning that I want to memorialize here for future reference. It’s The Foods of England Project (http://www.foodsofengland.co.uk), a site that attempts to amass a list, along with recipes (which they call receipts) and the backstories of traditional English dishes. They claim to have a list of 3,355 dishes listed, of which they offer original recipes for more than 2,500 of them. The site also has the texts of around sixty cookbooks online, claiming it “holds the complete texts of dozens of cook books from that of the master-cooks of King Richard II in the 14th Century right up to Mrs Beeton and Escoffier.”

Among the recipes I’ve viewed and want to make are: steak and kidney pie (one of my favorite English foods), beef pudding, and shepherd’s pie. Many of the recipes would be next to impossible for me to make, due to the lack of availability of ingredients. For example, I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity to make Eel Soup a la Richmond, whose ingredients include Thames eels, bruised crayfish, and “half a pottle of mushrooms.”  I might, though, opt to make a “rotten fish sauce,” as per the following recipe for Harvey’s Sauce:

Dissolve six anchovies in a pint of strong vinegar, and then add to them three table-spoonfuls of India soy, and three table-spoonfuls of mushroom catchup, two heads of garlic bruised small, and a quarter of an ounce of cayenne. Add sufficient cochineal powder to colour the mixture red. Let all these ingredients infuse in the vinegar for a fortnight, shaking it every day, and then strain and bottle it for use. Let the bottles be small, and cover the corks with leather.

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Aha

Posted on May 21, 2017 by John Swinburn

I’m late in writing this morning because I’ve been thinking, the kind of thinking with which writing would interfere. Most of the time, writing propels my thoughts, but some thoughts require me to abandon writing for a while so I can consider what’s going on in my head. So it was this morning. I needed to separate thinking from writing and vice versa, giving myself the luxury of contemplation without the obligation of recording my thoughts. That can come later, if at all, I told myself.  Here I am, an hour or more after I made the conscious decision to stand and watch the morning unfold instead of sit and watch words spill from my fingers onto the screen. Something happened during that hour to the way I perceive the world and my place in it. I cannot fully grasp the scope of how enormous are the changes in my perceptions of my world, but I know they are profound.  I have reached the point, in the span of just an hour or so, that I can forgive myself for every mistake I’ve made, if only I commit to leaving those flaws and faults behind me and invest myself in never making those mistakes again. I intend to record the particulars of those mistakes and flaws and faults, but not here and not now. The only thing I need to record here now is my recognition that I can leave them behind if I take the path that leads me away from them. My recognition of this simple reality is at once incredibly freeing—as if a crushing weight has been lifted from my shoulders—and painful, for if I fail to take the opportunity to become a better me, the choice to shun the opportunity will haunt me as yet another failure. None of this is earth-shaking, but then nothing we do belongs in that category. We’re all just fragile earthen vessels bungling through life with the freedom to bump into sharp-edged rocks.

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Morphing

Posted on May 20, 2017 by John Swinburn

We sometimes vent frustrations in ways that make sense only to us. Others look at us as if we’d stopped on the side of the road, spread a tablecloth on the ground, taken out a knife and fork, and dined on a freshly killed possum. Dining on fresh roadkill would be taken as a sign of madness that would evoke fear and alarm in people who witness the act. So, too, is reacting with loud expressions of anger at oneself for breaking a cheap and easily replaceable dish. Maybe the frustration is not with breaking the dish but, rather, with the prospect that dropping it could be evidence of a neurological disorder. In that case, the anger may not be a sign of madness. Instead, it could be an expression of fear. So, apparently inappropriate responses to external stimuli emerge from hidden (to the outside viewer) triggers. That reality (and I know it to be true, though the dish example is not necessarily real) brings to mind a common meme that makes regular circuits on social media. It goes something like “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” The trick is live that way; it’s so easy to condemn others for behaviors that seem irrational or unsuited to circumstance. All of this having been said, compassion must be tempered with skepticism, lest we allow ourselves to be exploited. I don’t know whether I find that a healthy attitude or a sad commentary on humanity—or only the person who holds that attitude. Reflecting on the statement, I wonder if it’s better to allow oneself to be duped and used on occasion, or to be forever on guard against it, thereby risking hurting people who need compassion but sense suspicion.

This brief post is an exposé of how my mind works; I start with something fairly straightforward, and then let it twist and turn until it morphs into something else entirely.

As I hear peals of thunder and listen to rain pelt the roof, I contemplate coffee. Yes, another cup at this moment seems absolutely appropriate.

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A Little Music That Moves Me

Posted on May 18, 2017 by John Swinburn

Just listen and let the music take you where you need to go. These are courtesy of Spotify. I love so many types of music; these inadequately represent my taste. They don’t even begin to touch the depth of my moods.

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Serendipity in a New Way

Posted on May 18, 2017 by John Swinburn

It’s almost midnight. I should be in bed, but I’m not. Instead, I’m reflecting on the day just ending, stunned that the frenetic pace led to something so smooth. The morning started with coffee with friends who happen to be writers. Then, a flurry of activities concerning a function for which I volunteered but later regretted taking on the task. My regret has subsided a bit, though it remains alive and kicking.  Then, I had an unexpectedly positive experience at an event in Hot Springs. My wife and a friend and I drove to town to participate in an educational program about the history of Hot Springs and, specifically, the Hot Springs National Park. Frankly, I was expecting to be moderately bored. Instead, I was spell-bound! The information was intriguing and presented in a way that made me want to learn more. I discovered so many things about Hot Springs I had not known heretofore…incredible history, both on the human scale and the geological scale. And, if that wasn’t enough, we enjoyed a delightful evening participating in our “dinner for eight” group. Our hosts’ home on a small lake was welcoming, the food (made by all participants, with the entrees and some main sides provided by the hosts) was excellent, and the conversation was truly fascinating. We learned a bit more about our fellow diners and they learned a bit about us. The evening was absolutely outstanding; I could do it once a week!

As I think back on the day just ended, I appreciate how incredibly fortunate I am to live in this time, in this place, and alongside the people with whom I share my life. Too many people on the globe do not have ready access to all the luxuries, both substantive and intellectual, available to me. That’s a terrible fact that I think all of us ought to take action to correct. Where’s the line, though? At what point do I sufficiently diminish my luxuries to ensure the availability of necessities to others? It’s a philosophical and moral question; I can’t answer it with any consistency. I bounce between wanting to be an ascetic, giving my worldly goods away to people in need, and wanting to joyously accept the bounty of my good fortune. Somewhere in between, I would like to believe, there’s a morally defensible point at which I do not have to suffer unnecessarily, but neither do people who might benefit from my willingness to replace my gluttony with comfort.

God, I’ve done it again. I wanted to be joyous in my good fortune, but instead I’ve wallowed in a pit of self-blame that still smells of greed. Ach! If I could snap my fingers and make the world a better place, in which people willingly toiled for their good fortune and willingly shared with those for whom good fortune has given way to bad fortune, I would do it. I really do want every human being to be fed, clothed, sheltered, loved, and free of hatred. And I’d rather like the same for the creatures that share our planet. What a pipe-dream. No wonder people sneer and laugh at dreamers. But wouldn’t it be great if we could somehow turn the world into a utopian wonderland? Well, we could. But only if you join me on the quest. I’ll call you Sancho Panza. You can call me Al.

Back to today, though. This evening was the closest I’ve come to thinking, “you know, even though the idea of ‘church’ is anathema, I might be able to get over it if this is what I might get out of it.” I’m too set in my ways, though, to come to that conclusion so quickly. No. I’ll stay a friend for awhile…or forever…before I stumble into a role I might not want.

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Coursing

Posted on May 17, 2017 by John Swinburn

A rancid, acidic stew is coursing through our nation’s veins, sickening the heart and gut of the country that once offered the world promise and served as an imperfect, but hopeful, model for humanity. Today, that ugly slurry—a foul mixture of hatred, lies, hunger for power, and naked greed—pours from open wounds, spilling onto an international stage whose audience looks on in stunned horror, as if witnessing a once-loving parent swallow poison and attempt to slash, with jagged pieces of her own broken bones, the womb from which her grateful children emerged. The body politic, infested with rabid, disease-ridden vermin, struggles to rid itself of a cancer so invasive that death beckons. Rainbows and unicorns are powerless against this beast that resides in the recesses of our collective brain. The only cure is a cleansing transfusion of new conviction and steadfast insistence on nurturing the wounded cells that gave birth to the nation so they will divide and multiply, filling the empty veins with resolve.

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Bird Talk

Posted on May 16, 2017 by John Swinburn

I’m looking out a side window near the front of my home, from which I can see the nearest neighbor’s house and a house on the other side of the street in front of yet another neighbor’s place a few doors down. The trees outside this window are close enough for me to see birds flit from leaf to leaf on occasion. One of those birds, I discovered by watching, is named Whistle. Two other birds with which he is most familiar are Chirp and Screech.

Whistle, Chirp, and Screech arrived in Hot Springs Village just yesterday in the back of a moving van from Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. They escaped when Glenda Scott raised the overhead roll-up door on the back of the van. Glenda, you may or may not know, was just released from prison, having served a lengthy term for the murder of her married lover. She was not guilty, by the way. Her lover’s wife and long-time best friend, Charmaine Qualls, who did the deed of which Glenda was convicted, set her up. Not that Glenda Scott’s history has anything of consequence to do with Whistle, Chirp, and Screech; Glenda was just the vehicle, as it were, for the birds to get to Hot Springs Village.

As a rule, wild birds do not have names. But these do, because the custom in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina is to give names to three out of every two hundred birds. I cannot explain just why that became the custom in Mount Pleasant, nor how the resident bird-namers keep track of the process. I just know it is true, because a little voice deep inside my head said it was so. One must always listen to the little voices deep inside one’s head, though there’s no rule saying one must act on instructions given by that little voice. Actually, there is a rule, but it says just the opposite. It says, and I quote, “Do not act on instructions given by little voices deep inside one’s head.” Because, of course, such voices obviously emanate from the wild crazies.

But I digress. Whistle, Chirp, and Screech escaped from the van and found a welcoming environment. They’ve take up residence in my “side forest,” a rather sparsely-treed area between my house and the one next door, and my “back forest,” a denser forested area behind my house. I welcome them because, as I understand it, the three birds have a healthy appetite for ants, unpleasant spiders, and wasps.

Ach! I just looked at the clock and realize it’s nearing 6:50 a.m. and my coffee cup is empty. Not only that, but the newspapers are almost certainly waiting for me in the driveway. I shall gather them up and scan them for news about the new arrivals: Whistle, Chirp, Screech, and Glenda.

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Plotting

Posted on May 15, 2017 by John Swinburn

While conducting some research for a fiction writing project, I read material from the Union of Concerned Scientists about “close calls” involving nuclear weapons. The numbers and scope of incidents that could have triggered nuclear war are chilling. One article mentioned a troubling incident in which armed nuclear devices went “missing” for an extended period, due to multiple failures of individuals to follow protocol.  “In total, there were 36 hours during which no one in the Air Force realized that six live nuclear weapons were missing,” the article notes. And the following, excerpted from the same piece, is especially concerning now, considering who is (occasionally) in the White House:

• August 1974. In his last weeks in office during the Watergate
crisis, President Richard M. Nixon was clinically depressed,
emotionally unstable, and drinking heavily. U.S.
Secretary of Defense James R. Schlesinger instructed the
Joint Chiefs of Staff to route “any emergency order coming
from the president”—such as a nuclear launch order—
through him first (Schlosser 2013, p. 360)

In light of the mistakes I’ve read about—involving both the U.S. and other countries—the background circumstances that form the underpinning of the plot I’m writing seem utterly plausible. But I hope the plot of my novel, if that’s what it is, is not a premonition of things to come.

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I’m Writing in My Brain

Posted on May 13, 2017 by John Swinburn

For reasons unknown, early this morning and late this afternoon have been monstrously productive for me with respect to ideas for a novel. I’ve spent hours documenting details of several characters and some fundamental outlines of the plot. I don’t know exactly where the thing will go, ultimately, but there’s enough meat thus far to give me plenty to write about in the coming weeks and months. If I could maintain the level of intensity from which I’ve been working today, I could finish the thing by Friday!

The degree to which the ideas consumed my thought today is best illustrated by example. As my wife and I were nearing the Balboa gate of Hot Springs Village, off to seek lunch in the real world, I had to pull off the road onto a side street so I could record a memo to myself about an idea I wanted to change. Then, as we were heading home after lunch, I began verbally outlining where one of the more sinister characters in my sketch enjoyed having lunch; he had a tendency to seek restaurants with odd names and I came up with one out of the air, at random, that I fell in love with! At some point during the day I read to my wife, aloud, my notes about the characters. She thought I was reading the text of the first paragraph of the novel (which would have been awful, had that been the case), but she liked the characters and asked questions about them, e.g., “how long have they been married?” My descriptions of the characters and their backgrounds probably will never find space in the novel; I documented my thoughts about the characters so I could know them well, well enough to understand their motives and fears and wishes. I am learning their backgrounds in detail; some of their background will necessarily find purchase in the novel as I write it, but not as a dry recitation of the past but, instead, in conversation or in some other way that makes sense and doesn’t look like a core dump.

What I find most exciting about what I’ve done so far is that a number of vignettes I’ve written over the years seem to have been written with this idea in mind and, therefore, are fitting in quite nicely to the overarching structure of what’s beginning to gel. I figure the material that doesn’t find its way into the novel (and there will be plenty) can still find its way into a three-component compilation of selected short stories, essays, and poetry. Tonight, I’m feeling bloody prolific!

One idea that probably won’t make its way into a book manuscript, but I love anyway, is this: Dick Cheney invites Jeff Sessions, Mike Pence, and Donald Trump to his ranch to hunt deer. He sends them off in one direction to flush out deer, while he waits to see what emerges from the brush. A few minutes later, he hears rustling leaves and the sound of snapping twigs. He brings the butt of the stock of his semi-automatic AR-15  to his shoulder and points toward the noise. Just as he sees what looks like an antler, he pulls the trigger one, twice, three times, over and over and over. And then he realizes what he’s done. And he begins to fashion an explanation; this time, it might be a little more difficult.

Too obvious, huh?

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Travel the World

Posted on May 13, 2017 by John Swinburn

I just watched a YouTube video in which Emmanuel Macron, the newly-elected President of France, invited U.S. climate scientists, engineers, and entrepreneurs to come to France to pursue their work on climate change. In my opinion, the invitation was a stroke of genius. It also made me wish I were a climate scientist. Recent skepticism about science in all its forms, fueled by what I believe is conservative and religious idiocy and ignorance, is sweeping across the U.S. and is growing in many other places. Countries with intelligent leaders (e.g., France, Canada, Germany) are countering that dangerous ideology by embracing the idea that we who have put the world in danger can save it; I hope they are right. It’s a shame that the United States, once the undisputed leader in science, technology, and pure research, is on track to lose some of its most precious resources and, in the process, its preeminence as a champion of the pursuit of knowledge. Much of the rest of the world is actively encouraging pure research, knowing it offers opportunities for both environment improvement and economic growth. Those lead to happier, more productive societies. There’s an entire world “out there,” calling on decent, forward-thinking people to join in the pursuit of decency. That, alone, is reason to consider traveling the globe.

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Blowin’ in the Wind

Posted on May 12, 2017 by John Swinburn

We had a house guest not long ago. When one has a house guest, one tidies up. One washes the guest towels, put fresh sheets on the bed, sweeps, mops, dusts, and otherwise behaves in ways foreign to one’s daily routine. And we did all the above. But, during the process, as I was putting fresh sheets on the guest bed, I flipped the fitted sheet a little too hard. I popped the beast to straighten it. But it caught the ceiling fan blade. The fan blade arm, the piece that attaches the blade to the body, broke in two pieces. Had the part been fabricated of decent material, I would not be writing this. But it was made of soft metal combined with the breath of a baby. This pairing was insufficient to withstand the snap of a bottom sheet. I erupted in anger at the broken pieces on the unmade bed. I cursed builders who use crappy products. I cursed the original owners who did not replace the fan with something decent. I cursed the subsequent owner, just because. And I cursed myself because flipping the sheets as I did was the act of an imbecile on drugs and sleep deprivation.

That notwithstanding, we completed our trip to Garvan Woodland Gardens. We drank beer, sampled tuna tartare and mahi-mahi tacos, and ate decadent ice cream. That does not explain why I go overboard on cleanliness with house guests. Right. It doesn’t.

And so why am I writing this, when I could have been smoking fish or instigating an insurrections that would cleanse this country and bring it into a new age of decency and possibility? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind. How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man? 

But I have another question that’s been on my mind for a while. A Facebook friend I’ve met only once in person, a guy in Florida, has bounced off and on from Facebook for a long while. In the latest iteration, he unfriended me and has not friended me again. I can deal with that; I’ve dismissed people who annoyed me. But I had no clue; no idea. And now I’m feeling rather down; what did I do, I wonder? Why would I be skimmed off into the trash? That’s one of the negatives of social media. The impersonal—that is, not personal—can be misconstrued as personal. A comment can become an attack. Appreciation can become a relationship or an affair.

 

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A Picture Says a Thousand Words

Posted on May 12, 2017 by John Swinburn

I took this photo in an interesting shop in downtown Hot Springs recently. 

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Revisiting Tired Themes that Just Won’t Go Away

Posted on May 11, 2017 by John Swinburn

I think—somewhere among the two thousand, three hundred and six posts I have made to this blog since I created it—seeds worthy of sprouting clamor for attention. Yes, I know; I go back and forth between thinking I will always be a would-be writer and feeling confidence I have the wherewithal to actually produce something worthy of reading. Today, this evening, my mind tends toward the latter. I do not claim to be an excellent writer, but I think I’m a good writer with the potential, with sufficient energy and effort, to become quite good. At least good enough to merit writing a book worth reading. Perhaps before writing that book, though, I really should follow through on the promises I’ve made to myself to assemble and publish a compilation; that’s still on my list of near-term objectives. But that effort does not preclude getting to work on a novel. I’ve agreed to join another critique group, this one for people who desire to write and publish long-form work, beginning in another couple of weeks. At each meeting, which will be held weekly, members may submit up to ten pages. Members read along in their copies as the writer reads his or her work aloud; it’s worth taking a stab. If nothing else, the energy devoted to creating those weekly ten pages will be energy redirected away from obsessing about the psychopathic criminal narcissist who occupies the White House. That stunningly self-absorbed deviant pig has given me (and probably hundreds of thousands of others) material that will serve me well in my writing. Who knew an orange-haired wanna-be tyrant would trigger the formation of creative-revenge factories in the minds of writers? Speaking of staying sane in the time of 45, a friend forwarded a link to this article today. I recommend it; I need to take its advice and counsel to heart.

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Cravings

Posted on May 11, 2017 by John Swinburn

This evening promises a welcome diversion from reality. We’ll attend a two and a half hour cooking class at Garvan Gardens, where we’ll see and partake of a demonstration for three courses, each paired with a special brew from Bubba Brews Brewing Company… and...enjoy samplings from each course including Tuna Tartare on wonton round, Samoa-encrusted Mahi-Mahi Tacos, with Mango and Jicama slaw, and Ginger-Lemongrass Coconut Cream, and Woven Melons, wrapped around vanilla bean ice cream. Now, doesn’t that sound intriguing? Yes, it most certainly does.

Keeping in the vein of relying on food to wash away the troubles of the world, I will prepare a chicken casserole this weekend for a Mother’s Day lunch on Sunday at HSV Unitarian Universalist Church. I’ve settled on using chicken and potatoes and lemon as the primary ingredients, but I have yet to decide which spices I will use to round out the dish. The UU diners do not know that they will be guinea pigs for a recipe I have never made; it’s probably best to keep them in the dark about that.

I infrequently incorporate food in my fiction. As I contemplate that fact, I realize it’s strange that something so important to who I am so rarely finds its way into my writing; well, I do write about food regularly on my blog, but I don’t incorporate food into my fiction with any regularity. I think I must change that; my characters ought to crave dishes that echo my own cravings.

This afternoon, I will practice reading the fiction I will read aloud at an upcoming event. Perhaps I should edit my piece a bit, adding an affinity for a certain food to enliven the main character.  Blood sausage might be apropos; or maybe a piece of venison backstrap.

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Unable to Attain

Posted on May 10, 2017 by John Swinburn

Until you’ve painted, you cannot legitimately express opinions on the skills of the person holding the brush. I learned that lesson through embarrassing experience. I tried to paint something I thought would be “easy.” I selected an abstract theme, thinking it’s impossible to paint something “wrong” that has no expression in reality. I was wrong. Across the board. And I was chastened to learn that, regardless of how much I wanted to express myself through art, I was not…am not…a natural. I may not be capable of doing what I want to do. And that reality hurts. My inability to transfer what I see in my head to the canvas is actually painful; it causes physical pain, discomfort that seems illegitimate. How could my inability to paint an image translate into physical pain? I don’t have an answer; I just know I have the experience. The reality of being “not remotely good enough” is instructional. It tells me I am not the man I wished I were. It tells me I do not have the innate talents I dreamed I had. It tells me I am more fallible than I wish to be. It’s just disappointing; more disappointing than I could have imagined. I had fantasies of being a late-in-life artistic talent. That isn’t going to happen. I can always return to my writing; I’m not bad at that. But, like the visual arts, I’m not by any means stellar (though maybe more stellar with words than with acrylic). Yet I have to accept that none of my artistic talents is sufficient to warrant calling myself an artist. And I think that is the most painful aspect of coming to this realization. I have always, somewhere deep inside me, wanted to be an artist; that has been my lifelong aspiration. To be a talented artist, regardless of medium, was the dream I never quite allowed myself to articulate. But here it is. That’s what I wanted. And I’ve not reached that goal and have no reasonable expectation of getting there. Knowing this, understanding this, coming to grips with this, is more difficult than I ever imagined. It’s as if the person I hoped I’d be, the person I’d always wanted to uncover after peeling back all the layers, is hopelessly lost. I’m unable to attain the single most important thing. I’m not sure what I feel. What I can say  with certainty is this: it’s not good. Coming to the ugly realization that wishes do not necessarily translate into reality is brutality made real. I guess I’ll get over it, whatever “it” is; but I hate knowing I am incapable of being the man I’ve wished I were. God, what a painful realization. I know I can continue to write, draw, paint, and the like. But I’ve reached the realization that, no matter how I try, I won’t be good at any of them. I might be adequate. But not good. Maybe we’re not all destined to be “good,” if that means anything. But some of us…me, for example…just want to be good at something. It could be anything; fishing lures, sailing, making art, investing in raw land. But none of those things fell into place. And I suppose I’ve not invested the energy and time required to make any of them happen. And, now, I have no energy to invest. I’m just impossibly tired.

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Fury

Posted on May 10, 2017 by John Swinburn

Festering rage. Seething hatred. Scalding fury. Bristling contempt. Loathing amplified by a factor of fifty, ramped up by an exponent equivalent to the temperature of the sun. Hatred with an intensity that would vaporize diamonds and turn a ball of solid steel the size of the Milky Way into steam. Concentrated animus capable of ripping the universe into fibers no thicker than one-thousandth of the thickness of a human hair. If I could focus the effects of those emotions toward one person, I know the man I’d pick.

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Memory Storm

Posted on May 9, 2017 by John Swinburn

I associate ‘squalls’ with sailing on open water. The word prompts me to think of explosive bursts of wind and rain that put sailboats in danger of capsizing. ‘Squalls’ triggers memories of my teenage years, living just a few blocks from a bay connected to the Gulf of Mexico. But my online dictionary does not support that association. The dictionary defines squalls as gusts of wind, often accompanied by rain, snow, or sleet. I doubt I’ll ever accept the broader dictionary definition of a squall. For me, the word will forever call to mind the potential dangers of pursuing adventure in a boat, exposing oneself to the caprice of weather. I am sure other words carry such  associations, meanings beyond formal definitions but chiseled into my psyche through the wisdom of experience. At the moment, though, I cannot think of what those words might be. But I just know they exist, ready to spur memories I thought were long-since buried under the sediment of time. Squalls reside in my head alongside smells and tastes that provoke recollections of long ago experiences. For some reason, the thought that led to the sentence I just wrote brings to mind a flowering plant from my early childhood in south Texas; it had sticky, sky-blue flowers. I wonder whether such memories reside in our heads all the time or whether, in an act of magic, spring into being with just the right mental nourishment. And, there it is again, another word from my childhood: impetigo. I remember the word more than I remember the experience, though I recall mouth sores.

There. That’s enough to get  my brain into gear today. Enough to record for future use. Enough to spark some ideas that might find their way into stories or books or memoirs.

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Cobra

Posted on May 8, 2017 by John Swinburn

Were I to open a restaurant (and if I did not call it French Kangaroo, the name I’ve given my kitchen), I might call it Cobra. As it happens, others came up with the idea first. Someone is operating a Thai restaurant by that name near Brussels, Belgium.  Someone else (I assume) runs Cobra Restaurant in Hanoi, Vietnam. There was a restaurant called Cobra in Konakilty, Ireland, but it has changed hands and is now a Pakistani restaurant called Marhaba. In Jakarta, Indonesia, there are/were at least two Cobra restaurants: King Cobra and Cobra Snake. There’s even a Cobra Restaurant in Prague, Czech Republic. And there’s a place called Cobra Club in Brooklyn, New York. There are others. My idea for Cobra is far from original.

My Cobra, though, would offer an assortment of dishes from around the world, many of them promising a venomous, spicy bite. I’d serve Ethiopian standards awash in awaze, Caribbean dishes flavored with habanero peppers, Moroccan fare laced with harissa, and Mexican food punctuated with jalapeños. In recognition that many people are not fans of spicy foods that bite, I would offer tamer versions of my dishes, as well. But the core reason for Cobra would be to offer meals designed to satisfy the taste buds of people who crave spicy foods. And fine libations. Craft beer. Decent but inexpensive wine.

My restaurant would not allow patrons to carry guns; even if the law required me to allow patrons to carry weapons, I would not allow them to enter my establishment. If someone were to enter my restaurant with a gun, even after being told weapons were not permitted, there would be hell to pay. Upon learning that they had broken the rule, I would have them dispatched with a steel pipe to the head and they would end up as nourishment for stray neighborhood cats and dogs. Now THAT would make my restaurant unique. But I’ve strayed off track, haven’t I?

My Cobra would be aggressively civil, treating every patron like a friend. I would insist on nothing less from my patrons; enter my establishment and be prepared to engage with everyone. Sharing dishes would not just be encouraged, it would be required.  Well, some people might not want to try your jerk chicken; they would not be forced to eat what you’ve offered to share, but you would certainly be expected to make the offer.

I suspect I would find rules imposed by health departments, taxing authorities, and the State in general to be more onerous than I’d be willing to abide. So the likelihood that I’ll actually open Cobra is exceedingly slim. And not just for those reasons. I’ve discovered over the years that I have an allergy to restrictive schedules, even self-imposed restrictive schedules. But wouldn’t it be fun to be the trigger for a place like Cobra as I envision it? I’d enjoy launching it, setting its direction and establishing a framework for its operation, then leaving to let someone else with more patience and discipline than I manage it.

Oh, one more thing. Successful completion of an exam would be required for admission; would-be diners would have to prove their ability to understand and accept the value of human decency and diversity; that is, no members of Congress would be permitted to enter my establishment, nor would 45 and his wished-for French loser, Marie le Pen.

Okay, then. Back to reality and a late breakfast meeting with a fellow Villager.

Posted in Absurdist Fantasy, Food | 2 Comments

52 Ways to Leave Your Country

Posted on May 7, 2017 by John Swinburn

I have an ambitious idea, launched only moments ago. If I consider the amount of effort its execution will require, I will back away from it as an impossible fantasy. But that is not the way one reaches goals. That is not the way one achieves dreams. So I will consider the idea worthy of pursuit; I will consider it a challenging, but achievable, endeavor that will be entertaining, enjoyable, and educational. To make it easier, I’ll need to enlist the support of others who might be interested in participating in the endeavor to bring the idea to fruition. Here’s the idea:

During the course of one year (fifty-two weeks), every week I (and those who attach themselves like glue to the idea) will partake of one meal modeled after the cuisine of a different country. The menu, drawn from “typical” cuisine one might find in that country, will be made to, as closely as possible, taste like it might in the country of origin, using the ingredients used there (to the extent possible).

I don’t know when, or whether, I’ll start this ambitious undertaking. It depends in part on the ferocity of my interest and in part on the availability of willing participants (who would be charged/charge themselves) to contribute by taking on the preparation of the meals of various cuisines. That may be the biggest stumbling block.

I’ve developed a list of cuisines I might use as a guide:

  1. Moroccan
  2. Ethiopian
  3. Japanese
  4. French
  5. German
  6. Italian
  7. Spanish
  8. Dutch
  9. Canadian
  10. Peruvian
  11. Pakistani
  12. Chinese
  13. Portuguese
  14. Chilean
  15. Icelandic
  16. Uzbek
  17. Belgian
  18. Croatian
  19. Russian
  20. Mexican
  21. Israeli
  22. Turkish
  23. Salvadoran
  24. Greek
  25. Australian
  26. Vietnamese
  27. Finnish
  28. Venezuelan
  29. Serbian
  30. Scottish
  31. South African
  32. Argentinian
  33. Korean
  34. Brazilian
  35. Swedish
  36. Filipino
  37. Irish
  38. Polish
  39. Senegalese
  40. Bulgarian
  41. Indian
  42. Algerian
  43. Paraguayan
  44. Afghan
  45. Malaysian
  46. Mongolian
  47. Kenyan
  48. Iraqi
  49. Micronesian
  50. Taiwanese
  51. Egyptian
  52. Romanian

There you have it. Another idea spilling from the mind of a man whose interests always seem to lead back to his stomach and environs.

Posted in Food | Leave a comment

Norwegian Sky

Posted on May 7, 2017 by John Swinburn

While his wife, Elise, and son, Kennet, sat at their breakfast table overlooking the North Sea, eating smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with Jarlsberg cheese and juniper berries, Stefan Ruud pondered his previous night, spent alone aboard a small boat anchored off the Svalbard Islands in the Arctic Ocean. He chewed on a piece of dried, salted cod—Klippfisk—and wrote in his journal.

I stare at the stars. I watch them trudge across the sky, dragging night along with them toward dawn. If you stare at the night sky long enough, it will burn an image in your brain you can never erase. It will paint a picture of your future as a vast wasteland in which meaning is buried beyond impenetrable space. Imprecise white dots against blackness—unlike any blackness on this planet. But the fractional moon in that dark sky is blinding in its brightness, shining down on me with a bleak, condemnatory severity, offering a substitute for panic that fills me with fear and palpable dread. The moon cautions me against taking that irrevocable action, that solution for which there is no cure. Yet, at the same time, she taunts me and urges me to explore a path toward a dimension from which return is impossible.

Stefan had not told Elise he planned to leave her. His departure several days earlier was, he said, for another oceanographic expedition, just part of his job. Stefan hadn’t told Elise he quit his job the day before he left. He hadn’t even told his employer. He just left.

[Eventually, I’ll weave this vignette into something.]

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

Regret by Another Name

Posted on May 6, 2017 by John Swinburn

I miss the kiss, the cuddle, the squeeze that
told me the world didn’t matter, but I did.
I miss the way the world slipped by without notice,
the way reality meant nothing and mattered less.

I miss the casual way we dismissed the world, as
if it were an inconvenience we could easily avoid.
I miss the ease with which we could touch one another’s
souls with a glance, the way we melted our hearts.

I miss the way we ignored convention, leaving the
critiques on the cutting room floor where it belonged.
I miss the dismissal, the rejection of judgment of
two lovers whose attachment was “wrong” but so right.

I miss being willing to break the rules, yet so conscious
that rules guided us to places we’d better not play.
I miss the guilt, the painful acceptance that our struggle
cut decency into ribbons, leaving lives broken in the breeze.

Posted in Poetry | Leave a comment

Fight for Justice

Posted on May 6, 2017 by John Swinburn

“I’m motivated more by ensuring his failure than my success,” Bhavin Patel said. The beer in front of him, his fourth, sloshed over the sides of the glass as he slammed it down on the bar for emphasis.

“He deserves nothing but scorn, contempt, and disdain. I’ll give him all I’ve got.”

Quality Abrazo, Bhavin’s friend since high school, sat with a bemused expression suggesting he enjoyed the rant, as Bhavin continued.

“If murder were legal—even if it were illegal but the penalties were something I could live with—I’d kill him. Or I might hire it done. It would be a public service.”

Quality glanced around the room before he responded. “If you want to win the race, you probably shouldn’t talk about having your opponent killed. At least not in public.”

The only other person in the bar who could have heard the conversation was Crutcher, the bartender, who stood at the other end of the bar, fiddling with the glass washer. The few other patrons who were in the bar when Bhavin and Quality entered had long since left.

“Okay, you’re my campaign manager, so I guess I better listen to you. It’s the beer talking, you know? I’m probably not doing myself any favors over-imbibing, either. What’s say we blow this pop-stand?”

Quality nodded his approval. He slid a five dollar bill across the bar where Crutcher would see the tip when he finished washing his glasses.

“See you later, Crutcher. We’re outta here.” Quality turned toward the exit.

Bhavin slid off the bar stool and followed him.

Bhavin entered the race for district attorney at the last minute, just before the filing deadline, the sole challenger to Duncan Speck. Speck had served as district attorney for ten years and had a deserved reputation as a harsh crime fighter. He sought and achieved convictions and long sentences on cases he prosecuted, no matter the crime. He was as hard on a college student convicted of possession of marijuana as he was on a serial child molester.

Speck made a single public comment about Bhavin when a reporter asked what he thought about his challenger. “Mr. Patel has nine years’ experience as an attorney.  I spent twenty years practicing law before becoming district attorney ten years ago. It’s up to the voters to decide which of the two of us they want representing their interests.”

When Bhavin told Quality that he intended to enter the race, Quality offered his support.

“You gotta know from the start that you’re at a serious disadvantage. You’re a thirty-five year old guy with brown skin and a funny name going up against an old white guy with lots more experience. You live in a conservative city. But if you’re committed, I’ll do everything I can to help, Bhavin.”

“I know it won’t be easy. But somebody has to take this guy on. And I think I can get people to look beyond my name and skin color. And there are a lot of conservative people with sons and daughters in jail for weed. I think I can do it if you’ll agree to be my campaign manager.”

“Of course I will. Let’s start by talking about how you’re going to deal with the inevitable question. ‘Are you in this race because Speck prosecuted your sister?’ You know that’s going to come up.”

Though he knew the issue would come up, the fact that Quality mentioned it right away surprised Bhavin. It stung that his friend mentioned it. He knew it would sting even more when reporters would bring it up later.

[Just playing with dialogue and setting. The real story is brewing.]

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

Friends

Posted on May 5, 2017 by John Swinburn

Make a friend. Share ideas and dreams with your friend.
Be there for your friend, no matter what.
Be the shelter in rough weather. Be the anchor in angry seas.
Be the celebration when you’re the only candle; be the friend you’ve always needed.

Do what you must to be the friend. Your friend may do the same.

If not, make a friend. Share ideas and dreams with your friend.
Be there for your friend, no matter what.
Be the shelter in rough weather. Be the anchor in angry seas.
Be the celebration when you’re the only candle; be the friend you’ve always needed.

One day, a friend will do the same. And that will make all
the failings of fictional friends worth the wait. You have to believe.
If that friend never comes, the wait was fiction, and so were the friends.

Posted in Poetry | Leave a comment

Diversity

Posted on May 4, 2017 by John Swinburn

I brined the turkey breast. My favorite wife prepared the broccoli and rice casserole (I chopped the jalapeños). Tomorrow morning, I will fire up the smoker and get to work. Five and one half-hours after I put the fractional bird in the smoker, it will be ready, or so I’m told. Once out of the smoker at the proper temperature, we’ll cover it in foil and put it away for the weekend. For tomorrow is not a day for smoked turkey. Do you not realize tomorrow is cinco de mayo? The day is celebrated (more in the U.S. than in Mexico) as the day Mexican troops overcame French troops at the Battle of Puebla. Many people wrongly assume cinco de mayo is Mexican independence day. No. That’s diez y seis de septiembre; September 16. Regardless, we’re going to smoke turkey tomorrow and wait it out while we celebrate the day with two sets of neighbors, both progressives. So, no party; but we’ll drink margaritas in the name of decency and honor and we’ll eat Mexican-inspired hors d’oeuvres and the like. And, then, on Saturday and beyond, we’ll celebrate by eating pavo ahumado and cazuela de broccoli con arroz. The adoption of cultural celebrations (which I do NOT consider cultural appropriation) and honor of cultures through their foods are ways in which I think we can acknowledge our appreciation for other lifestyles and cultures.Diversity in all its healthy forms deserves appreciation and acknowledgement. After all, we’re but evidence of the diversity of biological organisms, aren’t we? Well of course we are.

Posted in Just Thinking | Leave a comment