BuggBlog

Hold your horses!

Yes, yes, yes, I promised on Monday to have pictures from the wedding up shortly, and here it is Saturday and I haven't gotten anything together. In my defense, I just got all the photos yesterday. Our fabulous photographer, Ward Morrison, shot 998 photos of the set-up, ceremony, luncheon and reception, which I've now whittled down to about 300 possibilities for posting. It's going to be a long weekend. Anyway, just as proof, here's how Cavin and I looked shortly before the ceremony started:

And here's the cake:

Don't worry, photos of me looking like an idiot will follow later.

On the bleeding edge

So I'm at the mall this afternoon finally getting around to buying a pair of shoes to go with the suit I bought for my wedding this weekend and I'm feeling all stressed and jittery and anxious and totally behind on everything I need to get done before the big day. So, what do I decide to do to alleviate all this tension?

Buy a knife, of course.

Not just any knife. A Shun Classic 7-inch hollow-ground Santoku. That is one sweet knife. It promises to make slicing and dicing a speedier and more efficient process in my kitchen. Plus, the whole folded steel thing looks hot, in an "every appliance I own is over-priced stainless steel," gay kind of way.

So I get home and immediately take the knife out of its fashionably Japanese box and proceed to admire the knife's heft in my hand. I take a little swipe at one of the tomatoes I have sitting on the counter -- a task that, I'm ashamed to admit, often required a bit of extra effort from my old chef's knife -- and a perfect, near-invisible slit opens in the fruit. Wow, that's some sharp. Then I'm feeling the texture of the hollow spaces along the blade that reduce friction when slicing through veggies and such, and thinking, I wonder how sharp this thing actually...

Oh, my.

Yeah, it's that fucking sharp. I didn't even really feel it bite into my thumb until a few seconds after, like when the villain in a samurai film doesn't realize he's been decapitated until his head's sliding off his body. So I called Cavin to let him know that after he was finished picking up the thank-you mints for the reception he might want to stop by CVS and pick up some Band-Aids and, perhaps, a tourniquet.

Naturally, Cavin wasn't thrilled to find that in the midst of all this wedding planning I'd splurged on a fancy new knife. Still, I made him stand and watch as I diced half an onion with my old knife, and the other half with the new Shun Classic 7-inch hollow-ground Santoku, which cut through the layers like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Cavin was unimpressed, even as I showed him how finely I could dice the onion. As he grumbled, I went to wipe off some residual onion bits from the side of the blade and...

Oh, my.

Well, at least Cavin got a good laugh out of it, and I put a few more of the Band-Aids to use. I think I've learned my cautionary lesson and, if I'm lucky, I'll still have a ring finger come Saturday.

Keep your laws off my belly!

Between the banning of trans fat in New York and the banning of in-bar smoking in D.C., I'd pretty much forgotten about Chicago's idiotic ban on foie gras. Apparently, five months after the law went into effect, restaurants are flouting the law with exceptional vigor.

Foie gras was banned in Chicago because of what animal rights activists say is the inhumane way geese and ducks are force-fed to plump up their livers. The penalty: a fine of at least $250. Mayor Richard Daley has called it the "silliest" ordinance the City Council has ever passed. And many restaurants have acted accordingly.

At one business, the owner has treated his warning letter as if it were from a celebrity praising a great meal. "I did frame the letter and put it up on the sales counter," said Doug Sohn, owner of Hot Doug's, a gourmet sausage store.

Naturally, supporters of the law have to maintain the fiction that it's supported by customers -- although the restaurants get next-to-no complaints and the health department has put the ordinance at the very bottom of the priority list -- which leads to this little moment of hilarity:

Activists, though, say the ban is working.

"Our supporters are going into restaurants and we're told that they are not selling foie gras," said Gene Baur, president of Farm Sanctuary, a national farm animal protection organization.

Imagine that!

Obviously, as far as I'm concerned, if people want to shove Big Macs down their well-greased gullets all day long, that's their right. Same goes for veal and, of course, foie gras. And if some people don't like that, well, go paint of some placards and write some chants and get to the business of changing some minds. Instead, some Chicago politicians followed the increasingly popular "we know what's best for you" line of reasoning, and arrogantly took control of people's gastronomic rights. Which is another moment of mirth in the story, when the sponsor of the legislation, Alderman Joe ("Pot") Moore decides to call the kettles black:

Moore said he realizes the Health Department has more pressing issues. But he is dismayed to see restaurants flouting the ordinance.

"It evinces a certain degree of arrogance on the parts of these establishments," he told the Chicago Tribune.

Arrogance begets arrogance, in this case. I just hope the restaurants keep up the fight, until Moore has to pry the liver from their cold, dead fingers.

Happiness is a warm bechemel sauce

While continuously whisking my first-ever bechemel sauce over medium heat for 10 to 15 minutes this weekend, I realized that I'm often at my happiest in the kitchen. This is, of course, because I'm not required to do it -- it's a hobby, not a vocation, so I'm free to enjoy and experiment and generally do what I please just because I want to. Many, many people talk about their jobs in terms of this sort of happiness -- that the discovery of true joy comes when finding the job that allows you to feel happy and free because the work is such an integral part of you that it can't bring anything but happiness and contentment.

I'm not one of those people. I love my job -- what's not to love about being the editor of a gay magazine and getting to write about interesting people, manage a growing publication, review cars, read voluminous amounts, and so forth -- but it's hard. I get a certain satisfaction out of writing that I can't get anywhere else, a feeling of deep satiation that I really only know when I've written something I know to be good. That's content. Cooking is happy.

Recipes and rednecks

Nine o'clock in the morning and I've got my red velvet cake in the oven. fishbowlDC may have declared my dessert pretentious, but that'll never stop me from baking up some unnaturally colored chocolate treats. Although, they might have been referring to that strawberry-spinach salad, but it's from my sister in rural Kentucky, it can't be pretentious. And the whole shrimp scampi thing... well, that's Barefoot Contessa, so they've probably got me there.

Anyway, New Year's Eve party tonight so most of my day will be spent in the kitchen preparing. Nothing too awful fancy this year. Artichoke spinach dip with my secret ingredient, sausage-cheddar balls (which are nothing like chocolate salty balls, in case you're wondering), raspberry-almond shortbread cookies, various cheeses, crunchy vegetables, and fried ravioli. Are fried ravioli pretentious, or just upwardly-mobile white trash cuisine? If you have an opinion, be sure to let me know.

Speaking of white trash, I keep meaning to say something about the whole let's-get-rid-of-the-immigrants policy in Manassas, Va., other than just pointing out the obvious "that's why they call it Manasshole" thing. It's just such a stunning display of family values when a local government gets together to declare that nephews just ain't kin, especially if they're brown and speak English with an accent. About the only fun thing about this whole moronic situation is that I get to be both a liberal and a conservative in my opposition. I'm very liberal on immigration issues, and I'm appalled by the obvious racism underlying the Manassas family definition law. And I'm a conservative on property rights, and the idea of a government defining who is and is not my family and determining who is eligible to live in my home makes my inner redneck want to reach for the buckshot.

Maybe that will provide some common grounds for others in the state to come in and (not-so-gently) explain to Manassas that their policy will change. Now.

Anyway, on a more upbeat note, happy New Year to everyone -- except, perhaps the town fathers and mothers of Manassas.

Who wants cake?

Thank God for Giada De Laurentiis. I was prepping today for a small dinner party tonight when I realized: I can't make spinach-ricotta manicotti because two of the couples coming over had my manicotti the last time they were here. Obviously, something had to change, so a quick trip to the Food Network -- one of my most heavily used bookmarks -- yielded a couple of Everyday Italian meals. So now we're having Fiery Angel Hair pasta along with roasted fennel and parmesan. Lucky for me I don't mind trying a new recipe in front of a bunch of people. If it goes badly, I'll just have everyone drink more (I'd say it's hard to screw up pasta, but that's tempting fate).

The other interesting food is my sister's strawberry-spinach salad, which she and my mother assure me is the most tongue-tantalizing thing I'll make this year. The fruit's kind of out of season, but it seems like a good time to try. Here's the recipe:

Spinach and Strawberry Salad

1/2 c. sugar
1/2 c.olive oil
1/4 c. cider vinegar
1/4 t.paprika
1/4 t. worchestershire
1 T.  poppy seeds
1 c. chopped pecans, toasted
1 bag spinach
1 pint strawberries, sliced

Mix the first six ingredients well.
Add pecans and berries and mix into spinach.

Easy as pie. I hope.