The SF Redemption, Part 2

Good hair on the Pacific

In the month of July I was able to set foot on both the East and West Coasts of the country. Not a huge feat, maybe, but, hey, I think it's kinda cool, and I'll take whatever small accomplishments I can get. I wanted to, and I did. I win! Right?

On the morning of July 31st, I went to the Atlantic Ocean to complete the second half of my coastal double bill. It's only about 10 minutes away, so this part was especially not a great accomplishment... though it did take me, probably, a good whole two minutes to find a parking spot and then walk to the beach. Once I finally got to the beach, I walked in the sand for a minute, sweated through my shirt, dipped my feet in the water, and sat down on a bench to read. I couldn't focus, though; I couldn't retain what I was reading and, though I noticed it, I couldn't truly appreciate the warm saltiness of the tropical air or the crystal blue of the morning ocean. My mind was somewhere else.

At the beginning of the month, when I had had my hands (it was too cold for feet) in the Pacific Ocean, my mind was nowhere else. I wasn't thinking of a thing other than what was on that beach, and maybe what I was going to eat for dinner that night in San Francisco. I was breathing deeply, listening intently, and definitely appreciating my chilly, gray, gorgeous surroundings.

So, what was the difference, besides a few weeks time, a few dozen degrees, and a few thousand miles? Well, on the morning of my visit to the Atlantic (and most of each day for the last week) my mind was preoccupied with, even fixated upon, the looming appointment that was recently added to my calendar. I have a job interview. It's for an actual, full-time teaching position. Things just got real and my brain is reeling.

My mind cannot stop. Will not stop. The beach could not quiet it. Sleep has not provided respite. My mind endlessly turns, turning over the simultaneous problems of, A) how to have a good interview and get the job, and B) how to be a successful teacher on the chance that I actually get the job. Problem B is really the more troubling of the two. I think about it, I dream about it, I worry about it, yet, so far, I have diligently avoided coming up with any helpful answers. My interview is later today. I'll keep you posted.

But, for now, I find a writing window has briefly opened, and my mind wanders through it, back to Ocean Beach, the cool summer Pacific, and part two of my vacation in the city...


Days 2 through 11 - As Seen Through a Thin Film of Butter

The next week and half of my return to SF was a blur of movies, friends, walking, and eating. I had come to San Francisco with but one absolute must-do: I had to pay a visit to what many (hipsters) would call the bread capital of at least the city, if not the country. I had to go to Tartine Bakery & Cafe, in the Mission. The cookbook from the owner of this place is the one that gave rise to Morty, who has become more than a mere hobby to me. In truth, Morty is like an adopted son from a foreign country, and going to Tartine was like visiting that country in order to learn more about my son's roots. Tartine is the motherland.

Someday you will all be mine! Muahahahaha!

Arriving at Tartine for the first time, at about 11am, I was too excited to take pictures of the outside. All I could think to do was get on line and wait, menu in hand, mouth watering. It all looked so good, and I had not eaten breakfast; I was thinking I might have to order everything in the pastry case and everything on the bread counter. But, I had come for the bread and I did my best to stay focused. I ended up with an open-faced croque monsieur spicy turkey sandwich, a croissant, and, my coffee beverage of choice lately, an Americano. I got my food and, since it was standing room only in the small dinning room full of cool people, I ate it standing by the front window, looking out at the ever growing line out the door of cool people. I attacked the croissant first, all flaky goodness on the outside and creamy, buttery euphoria on the inside. I was in my happy place. A good croissant, to me, is not only one of the perfect foods of the earth, but also one of the prettiest works of art you're likely to see in real life; and this was the best croissant I've ever had. The sandwich was righteous, too, especially the thick cut of country bread it was served on. This is the type of bread I make at home with Morty, and I was pleased to see that I had been doing a pretty good job! Morty looks and tastes mighty close to what I got at Tartine.

Buttery outside

Buttery inside

So, I stood there, savoring my baked goods and coffee, watching the crowd of regulars and food tourists alike roll in, each in their turn awed by what they saw and ate. By the time I was done and got to taking pictures of my surroundings, the lens on my camera phone was greased from the butter on my fingers. I rather liked the effect... Tartine will always exist in my memory, soft and ethereal, as seen through a thin film of butter. This is as it should be, I think. I went back again several days after my first visit. The crowds were the same, the brioche bread pudding with plums was awesome, and I left fully satisfied and newly inspired to bake, bake, bake. Now, a buttery gallery of my memorable meals at Tartine:

Bread for lunch and dessert

Pure bliss inside a croissant

Bread pudding. There's bliss in there, too.

The crusty underbelly of Monsieur Croque

Morty in Cali

Finally, a picture of my own San Francisco baking project. Morty survived the cross-country trip in my suitcase and was raring to go on the other side. In fact, I let him loose on the town without protection and he got exposed to some new California bacteria. Since he's a bread starter and not a person, he felt pretty good about himself after that and performed beautifully. I think Danie and Jesse each got a pretty good loaf. When I left, I left California Morty behind for Jesse to experiment with... that's right: I left my wild-yeast-sourdough-bread-starter in San Fran-ciscooooo. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but, rest assured, wherever Morty goes, so goes my heart. Besides, Florida Morty was home patiently waiting for my return.

Well, let's see, when I wasn't shoving carbs into my face, what else was going on? Oh, movies! We watched lots and lots of movies; from mainstream and completely mediocre (or worse); to indie and quite good; to cult and pretty terrible (in an ironic way, of course). In short: if you are thinking of seeing The Trip, do it, ya British comedy nerd! If you are thinking of seeing The Last Airbender, shoot yourself in the head instead! If you are thinking of seeing Jonah Hex, go ahead because it's only, like, 20 minutes long and will be over before you can even load the gun. If you are thinking of seeing The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension, do it only if you can see it in a movie palace as beautiful and transporting as The Castro, and only if you think Jeff Goldblum is hilarious, and awful movies can be so bad that they're good.

Speaking of so bad it's good. Reality TV. Danie is a fan, I'd say, and she coerced me with the force of her fandom into watching way too many hours of Hoarders, a show that almost immediately hurt my heart. Yet, I couldn't look away. I don't think I've ever been so simultaneously angry and sad at someone, as I was with these hoarders. It's hard to sit on the couch watching, unable to do what I inevitably felt needed to be done so desperately; namely, slap some sense into these people and then cry it out. They're all just so broken, each with some awful story that has brought them to this point in their lives, each with a good reason for acting so unreasonably. The people on Hoarders just happen to have been broken in such a way that manifests in a particularly vile, filthy, infuriating way, but they deserve no less empathy than the rest of human kind, each of us walking around everyday with our own personal accumulation of emotional garbage in our metaphoric houses. There are just so many broken souls walking around in the world, and if you ever stop to think about it, if your friend ever makes you watch the saddest show on TV, you might become so heartsick about it that you'll not feel like going on. Then you'll watch another episode; shit is addicting.

Danie looking at the
"stupid hipster girl and her stupid,
never-ending bag of elaborate, organic snacks."
An approximate quote.

There were many much happier times remaining during my trip, though. For instance, a free Neko Case concert at Stern Grove! Free! Neko Case! Beautiful park with big trees and a shady log for Danie and me to sit on! This is the kind of thing that happens in big cities, the kind of thing you don't end up taking advantage of enough when you actually live in one of these cities. It's always much easier to not go, but I've always been glad when I have gone. Crowds can be annoying, but, you know, that's the cost of doing business. And, it so happens in this case that I love Neko Case. Really, I've found I love female singers in general ever since a 16-year-old coworker at my college job at The Museum of Science and Industry told me about Sleater-Kinney. From there I went to the Heartless Bastards, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Fiona Apple, Regina Spektor, Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings, Janelle Monae, Wye Oak, Beach House, and many other groups discussed on NPR. I fall in love with their voices, and then, since they're girls, I can comfortably worship them without the gay panic associated with being a fan of a male rock star. Although, it does feel a little weird singing along with their lyrics sometimes. But, their voices are so good and I am secure enough in my manhood to sing about all the troubles I'm having with the men in my life.

Neko Case is on the stage. I promise.

Later - or was it before? Who can say. - Danie and I took the ferry to Sausalito. It's like the Staten Island Ferry, except cleaner and not free. I was excited because this was the first time I had actually been out on the Bay. The weather was perfect, and, of course, it was very classically, San Francisco beautiful. Look! There's the Golden Gate enshrouded in fog! Gotta take a picture of that shit. Sausalito was a nice little rich person/tourist town, too. We walked the docks amongst the many, many yachts and sailboats. We got some famous salt water taffy. We got back on the boat and returned to the big city.  

SF

I did lots more, but, really, enough already. Let me sum up: Ball game! Garlic fries and Ghirardelli ice cream sundae! Beers are 9 fucking 50! Sat next to 45-year-olds on a date. She was an annoying, drunk, baseball-ignorant Padres fan. The guy shot me a look, as if to say, "Hey man, I know. Sorry, but I'm doing what I have to do to get laid. Someday you'll understand." Got myself my favorite souvenir t-shirt ever; it truly was the Dia de Los Gigantes! Fulfilled my California In-N-Out requirement. Ate amazing Mexican food, Indian food, and Thai food. Went on an Irish pub crawl of Union Square with Jesse's Dad and Mom. Had giant plates of roasted meats at two separate SF legends: Lefty O'Douls and Tommy's Joynt. Put up a shelf (barely), and helped establish a "study" in Danie's redecorated apartment. Walked my feet raw. Got diverted to Oakland for my departing flight. Had the time of my life.

"The fuck?"

The Jensens

The shelf!

The park

The End

Epilogue

Yesterday, midday: I'm walking through Staples, now Target, I see the "back to school" section, I am sick to my stomach. Queasy. Want to vomit. Is this good nervous or bad nervous? I guess I'll find out soon.

Spring Bake

Everyday takes figuring out all over again how to fucking live. - Calamity Jane on Deadwood.

One of the things I like least in life is retracing my steps. If you ever see me looking annoyed and acting impatient it is likely because I have had to do something over again. Be it drive back and forth between two points more than once in a day; or retype an email because my computer froze; or repeat directions five times in less than a minute because the little bastards aren't listening (that's a substitute teacher-specific example).

In fact, I will go far out of my way not to go back and forth, out and back, over the same road. The shortest distance between two points may be a straight line, but if I see that straight line more than once in a short period of time I will become apoplectic. As such, I always plan my trips as circles, going out on one road and coming back on another. That is, if I have to come back at all. My real preference would be to travel in one direction at all times, never circling back whence I came. One-way trips, in which I am propelled into some new unknown, with no reassuring promise of a return to the comforts or familiarity of home, get my blood flowing. Not that home is bad, or that I don't crave home just as much as all those points unknown. It's just that I get "itchy" when I think about making the return trip itself. Home as a destination, a place to rest my head, is great, but the road home bores the shit outta me.

Here's me as a baby. I needed something to break up this big block of words.

To be clear, I am speaking literally and figuratively. Very literally, I hate driving the same road twice in one day. Metaphorically, this applies to just about everything else in my life. As I said, I don't like doing things more than once in short order, especially if I feel I have already "gotten it." I am compelled by equal parts boredom and restless intellectual curiosity (OK... more boredom than curiosity) to keep trying new things. Sometimes, I even feel like the more I do something, the more I try to get better at something, the worse I actually get. I start to get too much in my head, over-thinking the thing, whatever it is, to death. If you think long, you think wrong. So much for self-analysis and self-improvement... clearly, attempting those things will just make me a worse person. Yep, I checked, that statement follows the logic of the one before it. It's all perfectly logical.

But, then again, after a day has passed, I'll probably be able to stomach seeing that same old road again or doing that same old thing again. Maybe I'll even be able to stand a little self-improvement. Like Jane says, each day becomes new again. Each day presents new problems to be reckoned with and provides new perspectives from which to fucking reckon.

I quote Calamity Jane because recently my Deadwood obsession has been rekindled. It was back over Thanksgiving 2009 when I watched the first 7 episodes in North Dakota with Danie and Jesse and Jesse's family. I mentioned in the blog at the time that the show became the melodramatic, curse-filled soundtrack to our trip. I had been dying to see the rest of the series, but until recently I hadn't had the chance. Finally, HBO on Demand made the whole series available to stream online, and over the last two weeks, my dad and I watched all 36 episodes. He was as immediately hooked as I was when I first saw it back in NoDak. There is just something about hearing the word "cocksucker" over and over again that makes grown men giggle. Between the musically vulgar language and the constant background din of an Old West camp, I think the sounds of the show really kind of hypnotized us. Once we started, we had to finish. We each sat in front of our respective computers and watched the cocksucker till our eyes bled.

Some things are like that. Some things you have to see through to the end, quickly and without stopping, if at all possible. Watching a show in this linear, one-way, non-stop fashion appeals to my always-moving-forward, anti-retracing-of-steps nature. With a similar compulsion, I am still working my way through the Tartine baking book. All the recipes sound so good, and Morty the Bread Starter is so strong and healthy, that I don't want to rest until I have made them all; and I don't much want to go back and do any of them over again until I've tried all the ones I haven't done.

So, last week I finally made the croissants I had been threatening to make since the beginning. It's a fairly laborious process of "laminating" butter and dough together, so I had to be committed. Turned out to be a fun day of beating butter and dough with a big stick. The smell reminded me of my professional baking days in San Francisco. I handled very many croissants in my time at that job (2 whole days). Anyway, how were my homemade ones? Well, they came out looking pretty pretty, but... they weren't as light and flaky as I would have liked. They were layered beautifully, but not flaky. So, I was a little disappointed on the first day. However, it turned out that their heavier, crustier nature was perfect for sandwiches the next few days. And when I say perfect, I mean just that. Amazing freaking awesome sandwiches.... no matter what you put on 'em. These rolls made everything delicious.

I could have popped open a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls and
accomplished this in significantly less time

"I like bread and I like butter, but I like bread with butter best."

Three Rolls and a Fistful of Butter, starring my dad

This week it's Spring Break, so I have some (more) free time on my hands. I already did one big batch of bread and plan on doing another. With the first, I did something I spent the first half of this blog saying I don't want to do. I repeated. But I had to return to rye bread since my friend Mitch is getting married next week and I am bringing bread offerings to all the Jews in Tampa. At least this time I was making a double batch, so that kept it interesting. Also, this time I put the caraway seeds inside the bread, as well as on top. It was insane! Ended up I made five loaves, each with a slightly different character. Those receiving these breads will get the one that I deem best suites them. Or the first bag I happen to grab, whichever.

At the same time I was making my ryes, my dad made a challah. Spring Bake 2011 was in full effect! There was no wet t-shirt contest, but we were waist deep in Jewish carbohydrates. I don't know what that means! 

Can you see the face of Old Man Rye? He's squinting.

Corned beef on rye, mit pickle

The biggest rye on the block

Inside the Baker's Bakery

Action shot: Challah getting beaten

I'm going to try making a polenta and rosemary infused loaf next. Why not! For now, I am going to go "take the air," as they say on Deadwood. I'm going to walk around the neighborhood sipping casually from a mug of coffee, sort of overseeing my territory. Inspired by Al Swearengen on Deadwood, I now love walking around outside with a mug of coffee (a regular ceramic mug, none of these fancy, citified mugs with leak-proof tops). I'm telling ya, it really makes one feel quite in control of one's domain; like the boss. 

And when I get back from my stroll I'll probably take some shots from the giant bottle of whiskey we bought. My dad and I cannot handle our liquor like cowboys and gentiles, but we sure like to pretend. 

And then, tomorrow, I'll figure it all out all over again...

Good, but Would You Mug an Old Woman For It?

This weekend Morty The Bread Starter became a rye bread, which, since he cannot grow a beard, handle money, or run the entertainment industry, is the most Jewish thing he could do. Rye bread is as much a part of the Jewish culture as guilt, neurosis, and poor eyesight. In other words, if Morty had his bar mitzvah when we made the first breads, then this weekend he graduated from medical school. Let's see, what other stereotypes can I use... I guess that's it for now.

Anyway, yes, I used Morty to make rye bread, and, yes, I was pretty happy with the results, once again. Not sure it was good enough to inspire petty thievery (a Seinfeld reference; if you have to ask, it won't be funny to you anyway. OK, OK... here's a link if you need it), but it was definitely a success. This Tartine-style bread making has been a lot of fun! This one was kind of a sour-dough rye; mild, crusty, chewy, and covered in caraway seeds. Perfect for a nice deli sandwich. By the way, if you've never had a pastrami on rye, well, shoot, I really don't know what to tell ya... you simply haven't lived. If you want to know what it tastes like to be Jewish (but not what a Jew tastes like... that's something else entirely), you find yourself some rye and some pastrami, toot sweet.

Pastrami on Rye.
This might as well be a picture of a circumcised penis, that's how Jewish this is.

Rye-ce to meet you.

Caraway seeds.

In other, less baked-goods related news... I am still substitute teaching and my teaching certification courses started up again. A couple weeks ago I worked every single day of the week. As in all 5 workdays, in a ROW. It was nuts. I just don't know how people do that! By the end of the third day I needed a good two-day nap. That's how it should be: three days on, two days sleeping, then two more days off. I could happily live with that work schedule. Come on, Obama, make THAT change happen.

Still, working does provide some decent stories to tell, from time to time. For instance, the other day I found myself locked in a wrestling match with a 4th grader as I tried to restrain him from pummeling another 4th grader. Apparently some other kid in the class had said something about his mom or his manliness or some such thing, and this kid went from 0 to pissed-the-fuck-off in a split second. His eyes rolled back like a shark on the attack. He was ready to murderlate the other kid. I quickly stepped in and sat him down in a futile attempt to talk him down. He wasn't having it, and soon bolted up and darted towards his nemesis, arms flailing like a crazed monkey. This was no ordinary 4th grader, this was a mutant shark-monkey! A sharnkey? He never made contact with the other kid, though, because I held him back until the principal came to get him. He was no more than 4 feet tall, but he put up quite the fight. The whole time he never stopped swinging wildly at the air, muttering his 4th grade threats. It must have been quite the show for all the other kids in the room. I don't know how long I was wrestling with him exactly, but I know I was winded as I explained to the principal what had happened.

I can assure you, if this situation ever happens when I am in a high school class, someone is going to get hurt and it is not going to be me. I am not about to step between two high school kids whose combined weight is probably going to be at least five times my own. No, they will be left to their own devices until bigger adults, who make more money than I do, show up. This probably applies to middle school, too... even half THOSE bastards are bigger than me.

It's not all juvenile delinquency, though. Last week, in middle school, I bonded with the weirdest girl in class, the one all the others talked shit about when she left the room. She was weird and spastic, sure, but also smart and pleasant in her oddness. We got to talking, and before she left she gave me a guitar-shaped silly band. My first gift from a student. Not as nutritious as an apple, but silly bandz are like money to these kids, so it was valuable to her, and therefore, to me, too. At least, there was no misinterpreting the gesture. She was telling me that she appreciated that I had been nice to her, and I believed her. On the other hand, most of the time I find I filter what the kids say through my own insecure, insincere, cynical adult brain and draw the wrong conclusions about what they meant and how they meant it. I need to remind myself that at least half the time they are actually not making fun of me! The other half they most certainly are. But, still... I shouldn't assume they are coming from a shitty place. They aren't fully formed humans, yet, they deserve the benefit of my doubt.

As to my own certification classes, they're going along fine. When I went to the first class of the semester it was good to see all the other students again. So good that I found myself, in spite of myself, hanging out before class, chatting it up with a bunch of different people. I was fucking working the room! As I was walking around talking to everyone, getting laughs (I think genuine), I was aware of how unlike me this whole scene was. I was weirdly "on."  I think I must have been feeling less self-conscious than normal because I was still dressed nice from working earlier that day. Funny what a tie can do to a man, when it's not busy making him want to hang himself with it. Besides the tie, I think I was also feeling good because it was like 25 to 3, girls to guys, in the room (I was the alpha male for once in my life); and, since I hadn't seen these people in a couple months, I was fairly confident they could do with another dose of Joel. Usually I am quite sure that everybody's had enough. And usually I do not refer to myself in the third person. Like Costanza, I was doing the opposite. Worked pretty well.

Of course, I'm sure I was not quite the King of the room my memory has made me out to be. It might even have been a sickening display of awkward gregariousness on my part. But, then again, maybe I was at least a Court Jester or something, if not the King. I could pull off Court Jester for one night, I know it. Come on, reality, let me hold on to Jester status.

Well, that's all I got for this very Jewish-themed TV and movie referencing post... now back to The Mentaculus. As soon as I crack that probability map of the universe, it'll be time for the two-day nap part of my week. Next up for Morty will be beignets or croissants, probably. Next up for me is a new poor-eyesight related facial accessory, to be revealed in the next post. Stay tuned.

Schnitzer's. Co-STANZA!

A Means to a Sandwich or: Bread is God

Brioche, Brioche

Morty the Bread Starter is going to Disney Land! He was just named MVP of the Brioche Bowl! Yes, on Super Bowl Sunday, while the rest of the nation prepared to participate in our one true national holiday, Morty and I played in our own special Big Game. It was an early start, there was no opposing team, and all the plays were in slow motion. At about 7am I threw a Hail Mary down the sideline. At about 1pm Morty caught that pass for the winning score, a brilliantly-brown brioche touchdown. Gooooaaaaalllll! (Wrong sports reference? Ahh, whatever. This time next year you won't even remember who played in the Super Bowl this year.) Morty was humble in victory, but I would have been penalized for excessive celebration. How could I not celebrate, though... this was the freakin' Brioche Bowl for crying out loud! Morty did great and damned if I wasn't gonna celebrate. OK, maybe I didn't have to take my pants off, but I was in the moment... no regrets.

Son, I've been slicing bread all my life, let me show you how it's done.

The bread is bigger than the chef... I'm sure this is a metaphor for something.

That's a sandwich.

After I put my pants back on, we tasted the bread and I can tell you it came out quite well. Turns out, brioche is basically an uppity, Frenchified challah. It was eggy, buttery, and delicious on its own or as a means to a sandwich. And I made a big batch this time, so there is more unbaked dough in the freezer, ready and waiting to get the call. I hear you can deep-fry it and turn it into a beignet. Mmmm... uppity, French doughnuts. Must. Try. This.

As a sidebar to the Super Bowl festivities, and as a way to transition into the rest of what's been on my mind recently, I want to say this: If 120 million people watched the Puppy Bowl instead of big dudes playing grab ass (as my dad would describe the game), I am convinced our country would be a better place. Seriously, I was hypnotized into feeling good by the overwhelming force of cuteness on display. The concept is so simple, it's genius: put a bunch of puppies in a room, put a bunch of cameras in that room so people can watch what happens. If people were forced to watch this for a whole day, non-stop, a revolution of good-will and kindness would sweep the country... either that or people would go batshit crazy. I'd be willing to take the chance. Anyway, all I'm saying is that maybe we should spend our Sundays worshiping puppies (or, maybe, you know, our fellow human beings), instead of football and/or some invisible god or gods. What have those two things ever really done for us, after all?

George Carlin said something similar in a very funny way, as he was wont to do. Carlin ultimately decided to worship the sun and pray to Joe Pesci, because he "looks like the kind of guy who can get things done." With that in mind, and as much as I like puppies, I have actually decided to worship bread and pray to Morty. Ol' Mort is a real go-getter. If Morty can't do it, maybe it can't or shouldn't be done. But seriously, I don't need to worship any "creators" besides all the other humans sharing this life and this little rock we're all floating on in the vast, uncaring void of space. We all are the creators of our own worlds - one love affair, one family, one friend, one good deed, one joke, one puppy, one Morty at a time.

At this point I'd like to quote a book I read recently. Just warning you. Here it comes. This is mostly to document for my future older, lazier self that I once read things. OK, last chance to bail. Here we go.

In The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut creates a new religion: The Church of God the Utterly Indifferent. Its two main tenets being: "Puny man can do nothing at all to help or please God Almighty, and Luck is not the hand of God." To quote Vonnegut, quoting his fictional reverend (emphasis mine):

"Oh Lord Most High, Creator of the Cosmos, Spinner of Galaxies, Soul of Electromagnetic Waves, Inhaler and Exhaler of Inconceivable Volumes of Vacuum, Spitter of Fire and Rock, Trifler with Millennia - what could we do for Thee that Thou couldst not do for Thyself one octillion times better? Nothing. What could we do or say that could possibly interest Thee? Nothing. Oh, Mankind, rejoice in the apathy of our Creator, for it makes us free and truthful and dignified at last.... no longer can a tyrant say, 'God wants this or that to happen, and anybody who doesn't help this or that to happen is against God.' O Lord Most High, what a glorious weapon is Thy Apathy, for we have unsheathed it, have thrust and slashed mightily with it, and the claptrap that has so often enslaved us or driven us into the madhouse lies slain!" - The Reverend C. Horner Redwine

Couldn't have said it better myself! Seriously, there is no way I could ever say it better, that's why I had to quote it. This is a religious philosophy that finally celebrates humanity and not magical outside forces that may or may not have been responsible for creating said humanity. Even if magical creation forces could be proven, so what? How does that affect me? What do I really need to know about creation other than "it happened" and "we are"? One way or another, scientifically or magically, we were created and we are here. No further thinking needs to be done about that subject, as far as I am concerned. We're here, let's do the best we can while we're around, the end.

I pledge allegiance to the bread, one nation under Morty

Is That a Baguette in Your Pocket?

The evolution of Morty. Well, evolution combined with me playing god.

Crusty, crackling, rustic French goodness.

Hey, baby, check out my baguette.

Another happy customer. Now, over 3 people served!

The further evolution of Morty.

And then there was one... We are very good at eating warm bread quickly.

I have to say, this was very good bread. This is probably the most happy I have been with the end results of a baking project... I really don't have an unkind word for how it came out. It smelled and tasted just like the best baguettes I've had at restaurants or bakeries. The crust was thin and crisp, the inside was tender and delicious. It had just the right sort of nutty aroma. Of course, I am not claiming much credit here... I simply followed a good recipe and Morty did all the hard work. In fact, the highest compliment I can give this bread is that when I was eating it I forgot totally that I was the one who made it. It was only after the first two loaves were long gone that I appreciated the craft of what I had done. It was so good that it rose above the din of self-doubt and modesty in my brain... I had to admit, I had made something of undeniable quality. I held my head a little higher that night, the way only a craftsman proud of his day's work can.


Now, this kind of pride is not easy for me to express. Normally I am not one to toot my own horn, or butter my own baguette, as it were. Usually, I like to stay firmly in the realm of humbleness and self-deprecation. The funniest jokes are the ones I have at my own expense. My nature is not to make fun of others, or to be mean. Not to say I don't dislike most people ('cause I think I probably do), but instead of meanness, I hope I usually try to relate to them with empathy and then simply move on. Oh sure, I do make fun of people sometimes. I mean, some people just have it coming and who am I to not give it to them? But, that is not where my mind goes naturally and I am not proud of myself when I do it. The best (and coincidentally, easiest) target will always be myself.


This brings me to a recent conversation I had on the phone with one of my best friends (don't worry, it's not you, because this friend says he never reads the blog.. in fact, he scoffed at the notion as if it were ridiculous.. a whole other point of contention). Have you ever talked to someone who has no room in their conversation (and apparently, their consciousness) for self-doubt? They are just so seemingly sure of themselves, and even take a mocking tone when you express confusion or doubt about your own life. They make it sound as if you are the crazy one for not knowing the answers, or even just not being 100% sure of the answers. Have you ever wanted to reach through the phone and choke the life out of one of these people, ask them if they were so sure of themselves now? Of course, they'd be dead, so I guess they couldn't answer, but the point would have been made, I think.


It comes to this: If you aren't self-aware about your own problems, I can hardly stand to talk to you. You don't have to hate yourself, but you must recognize that you, like every other human being on this planet, is flawed. And you must desire not to be so flawed. If you are perfectly unaware and/or accepting of your own defects, fuck you. First, I don't believe you. Second, if it is true that you genuinely believe you have all the answers without any second-guessing, what a self-righteous and clueless prick you must actually be. 


Is this simply my own neurosis speaking? Am I just jealous of these types that go through life so sure of themselves? I don't think so. Like I said, I believe these people are only pretending to be that confident, anyway. Deep down, they may be even more conflicted than I am. 


But, my capacity for empathy fails me when it comes to people with this attitude. If you can't engage me in a self-deprecate-off, I will lose interest in you, not to mention respect for you. Being so smugly confident is disingenuous and fucking boring. I mean, if we're good friends and we take the time to talk to each other... let's really TALK! Let's talk about real feelings, real doubts, real insecurities.. And good stuff too!


But actually, that stuff is the good stuff. It's good, real-life conversation, and that is the best things friends can do. I can get the weather from a widget, from a real friend I want to hear some of the inner-monologue. So, come on, open up, admit you don't know everything, admit you're not sure about the decisions you're making in your life. And allow me that privilege, too. It'll be OK... or maybe it won't. I don't know! But I know for sure that maybe is more honest than yes, no, always, or never.


Maybe I will make a brioche with Morty this weekend, maybe I won't. Maybe I will get out of bed, maybe I won't. Maybe next time I see my friend I'll strangle him with a piano wire, maybe I won't. Maybe, just maybe.

Ready for His Close-Up

Saturday was the big day. It was Morty's bar mitzvah... today, he would become a man (er... loaf of bread). It was a long day for both of us. We woke up bright and early, at about 5:30am, and were completely wiped and napping by 7pm. It was exciting, nerve racking, and ultimately very rewarding. Whew! Whatta day! Whatta bread! So, come on down to Del Boca Vista and gather 'round the slide projector. Sit back, relax, enjoy the show. Hit the lights, cue the music... (seriously, hit play on the video below and listen to the song as you scroll through the pictures. Do it!)

5:30am - Morty and Morty Jr., warming up for the big day.
Morty was bar mitzvahed and had a son on the same day. Morty is more of a man than I am!

6:30am - The tools of the trade. Morty now incorporated into a dough.

10:00am - After 3 hrs of rising in a bowl, the dough rests after being cut in twain.

11:00am - Shaped loaves rising, waiting for their turn in the oven.

3:00pm - The baker at work. Gotta score the top of the dough without
burning myself on the scalding hot cast iron dutch oven. Came away remarkably unscathed.

3:30pm - Loaf #1 nearly complete. Nervous baker looks on nervously.

3:50pm - Oh, Morty, you crusty sonofabitch! I knew you could do it! I'm so proud!

3:51pm - Thanks, Dad! I'm happy, too! I can't sop smiling!

3:52pm - "The song of bread." As the crust contracts, you can hear a delightful crackling sound...
 Morty's grandmother listens to her grandson's singing voice.
"That's nice, but maybe one day I'll have a real grandson?" Sigh.

4:05pm - The holes mean it worked! Seriously, I was thrilled it came out looking so well.
It really rose! I didn't even care much about the taste after this.

4:06pm - It tasted awesome!

5:00pm - Loaf #2. This picture makes me daydream about cracking that crust,
crawling in head first, and just camping out in there for a while.

6:30pm - Right there, in that hole, is where my living room would be.

6:00pm - Loaf #2 poses in front of his role model.

That's what I'm talking about.
Morty was delicious and will be coming back real soon, maybe in pizza form next time...
or a baguette... or a croissant... or all of the above!
Show's over, hit the lights.