Cipher

Cipher
ground into many
is naught

standing on
hollow ground
the souls of many
all around
cipher ground

cipher stood
on hallowed ground
beyond the edge
without a sound
remains a cipher
left intact
on the ground
all around

dust is ground
into a cipher
enigmatic
with no sound
into your eyes
into your smile
it covers you
in nothing

within us all
is cipher ground

LSM 11/12/02

Always with the Fish Bones

My friend Marta came over for dinner last week. We had decided on grilling fish, which we hoped would be fresh bluefish caught by Jim and his dad. Well, Jim and his dad went kayaking, so Jim returned home a little later than planned.

Fortunately, I had prepared for this eventuality by going to the store and getting some fish. Now, you should know that the thing I like least about my new job is that Grand Central Market is no longer across the street from my office. In it I had my fish monger, my butcher, my cheese store, my specialty shop (foie gras, truffles and the like -- uh, not that I've ever bought a real live truffle), and more. I miss it terribly.

In fact, the nearest good food store to my office now is Whole Foods, clear across Central Park. After my experience tonight, though, I'm beginning to think that's not such a bad option - except, perhaps, when it's 15 degrees out.

Instead of heading west, I headed east in my quest for fish tonight. I was actually aiming for Katagiri, on 59th between 2nd and 3rd. Except I thought it was on 58th, so I walked down past the array of Indian restaurants on 58th, very confused. At that point I was running out of time, so I just went to the Food Emporium underneath the Queensboro Bridge at 1st Ave. Well, I'm sorry, but Food Emporium is kind of like the kid dressing up in its mother's clothes. It's a generic grocery store that doesn't quite pull off being a gourmet market.

I went through the vegetable section to the back of the store, to the fish counter. The butcher and fish counters were clearly wrapping up for the evening - it was shortly after 7pm. I had been planning on buying a couple of branzini for stuffing with my favourite combination this summer - rub with olive oil and salt, and stuff the deboned cavity with ultra thin slices of red onion and lemon, and sprigs of thyme. I looked at the sections of fillets, mixed seafood and wet scallops with a sinking heart. I didn't see a single whole fish in the entire display case. As I stood there with my head down, a young guy came over behind the counter and said, "how can I help you?" I said, "do you sell any whole fish?" He looked puzzled (bad sign). He came out from behind the counter, looked at what I was looking at, and said, "what do you mean?" I paused. "Uh, like, the whole fish - you know, with the head and tail, not just a fillet." I mean, how else do you describe a whole fish? "Oh." He looked uncertain. After entirely too long a pause, he said, "we have red snapper." "Whole?" I asked. "The entire fish?" "Yes." "How much is it?" He punches into the scale. Punches some more. "$18.99." Uh, no. That's a fillet price, not a whole fish price. Still, I'm curious. "Can I see one?" "Sure." He goes into the back, and brings out a fish with ice particles still on it. It's fresh - the eye is clear, and not sunken. It looks firm. "How much does it weigh?" He puts it on the scale. Just over 2 pounds - over $38. Wow, that's too much for a fish. But what are my options? I waver. "Ok, I'll get it." He puts the fish back on the scale, prints out the price label. "Wait!" I say. "That's not right, to charge me the same price for the whole fish that you would for the fillet." He doesn't seem to understand. A fillet, I'm paying for your work and not for the bones and so forth. "Ok, I can give it to you for $15.99," he says after thinking a bit. I think a bit, too. "I've never paid that for a whole red snapper," I say, and I explain to him further the difference." "ok," he finally says, "what would you pay then?" We finally settle on $12/lb. It's still a little high, but I'm just happy that I've brought him down $7/lb.

So I get the fish home. I unwrap it. I peer inside. No guts - but just about everything else. I've never deboned a fish, and Jim's not here. I've given instructions to him about butterflying a fish from what I've read on the internet, but I've never done it myself. I peer inside again - I see a small dark thing that looks awfully like a heart. Marta arrives. I tackle the fish. I remove various small discreet bits from the cavity. I hack off the tail. I try to cut off the head after talking to Jim and discovering that the main cut should be behind the pectoral fins. I cut off more bits from the inside. I finally figure out how to cut off the head, except the last bit I think is going to be bone isn't, and the head flies out of my hand and onto (fortunately) the counter. The backbone and ribs are still in the body. I have to get them out. I don't know how I do it, but I somehow get the backbone out, but not all the ribs. We'll just have to savour our food (aka eat carefully to avoid swallowing big fish bones). The inside looks all hacked up, but that's ok.

Oh, before I get the backbone out, I decide to descale the fish. I read up on it in the New Joy of Cooking, and soon fish scales are popping all over the kitchen. Somehow we manage, though, and we successfully descale the fish. I am picking fish scales out of my skin and hair for most of the night. Unfortunately, the skin turned out to taste rather fishy, and I didn't enjoy it.

I rub the hacked-up cavity with olive oil and salt, spread out ultra-thin sliced lemon and red onion, and lay down lots of fresh thyme. Next time, I'm going to put fresh thyme on both sides. It's really wonderful.

Heat the grill on high, keep it on high, rub it with oil, fish on, 8 minutes per side. It was perfect. Marvelous. Fantastic flavour (except the skin, much of which stuck to the grill anyway). Perfect with CSA salad of lettuce and grape tomatoes, and, much later, smoked bluefish.

Summer

Some days, the view is obscured by clouds, some days by polluted brume. Sometimes the uneven peaks glitter in the sun as I plunge below the earth on one more day, one more trip. I can get whatever I want, good or bad. I can see whatever I want, be whatever I want, feel whatever I want. I can see beauty and repulsiveness but nothing is average. Nothing except those who don’t care anymore. No one except those who don’t see or feel anymore. It is freedom only as long as you do not let yourself be controlled by it. Its intensity is a drug, just a little bit more, a little bit more, and you find yourself craving feeling and swirl of activity and hot air with little bits of paper that are blown up into your face by the yellow cab that passes too close at your fingertips you cough and dart in front of the bus now it’s a game to gain the sidewalk before the bus gains you and then you push on into the greenery down the hill and the horns fade and the damp smell of fresh earth and flowers looms up and envelopes you and you can run into the grass and fall down and roll through and still its intensity radiates up through the earth and will never let you go as you peer up through the sunlight at the tower glittering in the sun.

Spring? Says Who?

M E M O R A N D U M

To: Spring

From: Winter

Date: March 21, 2006 - [First Full Day Of Spring]

Re: Cancellation

Please note that, effective immediately, you have been cancelled. The regulations do not provide for an appeal of your cancellation. You will be advised of your rescheduling.

* * *

I mean, really. It was something like 14 degrees this morning with the wind chill. This is not North Dakota - although I have it on good authority that it was a balmy three, count 'em, three, degrees there a couple of mornings ago. I did indeed wear The Hat (tm)* to work this morning, something I normally reserve for days when the actual temperature drops below 20, but since I've never worn it when it's been officially spring, I made an exception this morning. I didn't tie it beneath my chin, though -- something I do when it's really cold that immediately identifies me as Not Cool and Not Russian. But that's ok, because it makes me a Warm New Yorker.

*Yes, The Hat, as it has been dubbed by my friends, is a genuine Russian rabbit fur hat, complete with ear flaps, brought back by my parents from their visit to Moscow in January 1994. (It is only fitting that while they were there, we had one of the coldest, longest cold spells in New York I can remember, while they were enjoying relatively balmy mid-30s in Red Square. I drove them to JFK, so I had the car while they were gone, which led to lots of fun and excitement on the streets of Brooklyn when the car door froze open one day. But that's another story, and another post.)

Words

bicycle ride on the sidewalk
a man brushes his teeth
furiously
over the corner trash can
( so I've heard)
a car winds sinuously backwards down a one-way street
drops of rain
trickle down the panes and
pool darkly on my shoetops

lowering grey skies yield little clue
as to the coming blue
a splash of bright graffito at the top
of vertical brick
how did they get there
the modern spidermen
in their delicate midnight dance
of evasion and challenge

the Broad Way name
once in lights and future same
I walk down the other so prosaic
these lights are tired Christmas lights
twitching feebly in their long decline
reflections dancing dimly in the puddles
lapping at their feet and
suddenly splashed on the casual passerby
who no longer cares
about the bicycle
ride on the sidewalk

Praline Bacon - or Bacon Brittle?

For New Year's 2003/2004, as I think I've mentioned before, Jim and I went to New Orleans, and fell in love with it. We also fell in love with something called praline bacon, which, as I had read in an online description, possibly somewhere on Chowhound, is the "food equivalent of crack." Here's how I wrote it up shortly after we returned from the Big Bacon Fest:

The Day Of The Praline Bacon Adventure, Or What Laura And Jim Had For Breakfast.

Yup. Did it. Had it. It’s legal. Crack is not. Although I’ve never tried the latter, I would say that it is a fair comparison.

So breakfast on this beautiful, unexpectedly crisp Tuesday morning was to be at a little Creole place called Elizabeth’s, in a neighborhood called the Bywater. We didn’t drag ourselves out of bed until close to 10:00, and Elizabeth’s serves breakfast – and consequently praline bacon – only until 10:30. We could see on the map that the street Elizabeth’s was on intersected our street, but we didn’t know which block Elizabeth’s was on. Our host looked it up, and told us it was within a block of our street – but the street itself was a good 10 blocks away. (And that's clear as mud.)

We began walking. And walking. The clock was ticking. We crossed the railroad tracks. And walked. Finally, we spotted Gallier Street. We were only a block away – but in which direction? To the right looked like a dead end at the levee. We turned left. Walked about ½ block – that didn’t look promising, either. It was getting awfully close to 10:30. We turned back towards the levee. And sitting tucked away at the end of the block, at the corner of Chartres St. (which had been completely dug up), was Elizabeth’s. We walked in at exactly 10:30. There was one table for two left, and we sat down. We were in time to hear a waiter say to a woman next to us, “well, if your friends don’t get here before they’ve ordered” (pointing to the table of 4 seated just before us) “they’ll have to order lunch.” He then told the next couple as they came in the door, “breakfast is over, it’s only lunch now.” I snagged the waiter, and with something approaching panic in my voice, said, “we would like to order breakfast.” He said, “No, you’re ok. You’re the last ones.” Jim and I like to cut it a bit close on occasion.

We ordered one serving of praline bacon. Jim then ordered an omelette made with smoked sausage, and I tried to order the same, but in the middle of ordering I forgot that I was supposed to be ordering an omelette, and asked for the eggs to be done over easy. So I got my eggs over easy with sausage, grits and a biscuit. I had a small piece of the biscuit and about ¼ of the grits – both were excellent. The sausage was awesome, with a real kick.

If you are the type who likes the maple syrup from your pancakes to mingle with your bacon, you love praline bacon. It doesn’t matter whether you like nuts or not. I hate most nuts, including pecans (at least, I thought I hated pecans until this trip. I may have to change that). Praline bacon is basically bacon that has been coated on one side with sugar syrup and small pieces of pecans. Deadly. I love it. I will go there again.

I will also report that I now like pecans, in case any of you were wondering. I am even happier to report that Elizabeth's survived Katrina, is open, and, so far as I know, is still serving praline bacon.

I met up with a friend last night for - what else? - a little sushi (funny how something like that happens when you lock yourself out of your apartment and your husband isn't coming home for another two hours and you run into your friend at your local coffee shop), and then Jim finally joined us. After a little sushi and a little sake, and we were parting ways, Meg dropped a bombshell.

"Have you ever heard of bacon brittle?"

Beat. "Uh, bacon brittle?" Yes, she assured us, there really is something called bacon brittle. It seems to be the reverse of praline bacon, in a particularly dangerous kind of way. And she sent us the link.

Without further ado: bacon brittle. Because of the wonky way the page is set up, you have to scroll all the way down and look on the left, and click on the more info button. I will leave you with an excerpt from the product description:

It was as if Allen Ginsberg had just read Howl or Bob Dylan had just played electric for the first time. I became fixated on the Bacon Brittle and had to have it for my catalog. If ou or soemone you know claim to love bacon, you must try this. It will shake the earth you walk on. One bite and you'll shake and dance and involuntarily yell out, "Yeah baby, Yeah Baby, Yeah!"

A bit more evocative than "the food equivalent of crack", ¿no?

The Return of Crunchy Flake

*blows dust off*

Why, hello. I did not intend to abandon you precipitously, but I began a new job, and was immediately forced to forgot there was anything else in my life. My air tank ran out a few days ago, though, and while I surfaced to exchange it for a new one, I thought I’d drop by.

Sushi, last night, again at our current favourite, Sushiya, on 56th St., which lately has had incredibly fresh fish. Saba (mackerel). Sawara (Spanish mackerel). Unagi (fresh water eel). Anago (sea eel). Hamachi (yellowtail). Ikura (salmon roe) with quail egg. Uni (sea urchin roe). The hamachi was rich and buttery. The anago had a mysterious, lightly smoky smoothness, less assertive than the unagi. The uni was ethereal sea custard. We drank smooth sake as accompaniment, and finished with a bowl of miso soup. At the end of the meal, Jim looked at me with a glint in his eye. "Let's go to the Rainbow Room for dessert and a drink," he said. We looked at each other. Back and forth. "Ok," he said. "If the check is less than $67.50 before tax, let's go." "Ok, you're on," I said. Wouldn't you know, the check was $67 flat before tax. Random guess, because we ordered most of it without looking at the menu.

So we walked down to Rock Center in the chill air. Walked into that marvelous Art Deco building. "May I help you?" the elevator attendant said. "For drinks," I said. Up the elevator whisked us, to the 65th floor. We were in luck, as a table with a front and center view of the Empire State Building opened up as we arrived. We settled in, and got two glasses of port and a slice of chocolate cake to share. Of course, each glass was nearly the cost of the bottle at a wine store, but we sipped it as we sat back and drank in the sparkling lights shimmering in the heat that rises from the heart of New York even on the coldest night.

When we left, we wandered through the lobby with its oversized, rough-hewn men, sketched in with the desperation and hope of the 1930s. We stood on the brass plate covering the hole for the Christmas tree, and leaned over and watched the few hardy souls skating round and round under the bright lights to tinny Journey. And then we walked, up Fifth Avenue, past the glittering stores full of Western wealth, the Weather Channel truck filming the cold night, past the churches with shivering souls huddled on the steps as their freezing streams of urine trickled and slowed across the sidewalks to the gutter.