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"... I need some More. Gimmie-Gimmie-Gimme... don't ask what for." Black Flag As has been etched in stone, Saturday is procurement day.Sunday is execution day. No sooner does the direct deposit kick in, then the dollars piss away relentlessly like air from a bad tire. That's another reason I don't exactly love this time of year... it's all a game of catch up after the holidays, while my spending habits haven't cooled (wretched sobs). Poor me. Of course, I should know better. Seasonal Affect is a real mutha. Impulse buy: rice cooker. Since the only way you get sushi in a country town is to buy frozen fish sticks-remove breading-thaw, I've been experimenting. Vegetarians... Vegans... they all get impressive titles. What about those of us who refuse to eat fast food? What do we get? The Burger Kong? I'm open to debate on this. Mac is Murder. Cool, huh? Back to the point: since the cheap-ass electric stove in this house is Of Satan (varying from tepid to Brimstone without turning the dial) and scorched the bottom of my last attempt at sticky rice despite religiously following protocol, I'd had enough.One more kitchen gadget, please. Permission granted. So, I decided to execute this evening. Though that may be too harsh a word... I may not have been channeling my inner Iron Chef, but it could have been better. The way things usually are with me, first attempt: amazing results. Second attempt: less than desirable. At least it was edible. Not aesthetic, exactly, but no retching. Broadened the recipe and presentation (nori-outside, rice-outside rolls; stuffed with shrimp , cucumber and a good shake of Togaroshi Sushimi, rolled in roasted sesame seeds. Tuna nigiri on torpedo sized hand-formed rice), which complicated things a bit, when I should still be keeping it simple and going for consistency. Nope, gotta push the envelope, though the real chefs do this all of their lives (with apprenticeship). Guess I need more kitchen time... but that'd make Miss Jane redundant. The tucker ain't big enough for the both on us. Not like that will stop me. All of the activity scored by the new Ry C00der/Manuel Ga1b�n CD... hispanic los Straightjackets.... Mmmmm, twang. I might be a little tight, but at least I'm not sitting under the Archdemon's, with top forty eroding my brain. Note: Have trouble sleeping? Try watching a Liverpool football match... guaranteed instant snores, and white-eyed-rollback. ...................................................................... Hostel Environment Day Seventeen: Sumpter to Baker The Elkhorn Room wasn't cutting it for comfort food, the night before. When we stumbled back to the Thieves' Market by flashlight (makeshift accomodations amongst the debris), we cobbled some hot food on the campstoves. By the time we were done, exhaustion and the bitter edge the night was brandishing meant cleanup in the morning... the sleeping bags exerting irresistable magnetic pull, not to be denied. Lights out, profoundly. With the first rays of light on the tent walls, the steam rising from Luke's side, where his head was supposed to be, was a good indicator that it got a mite chilly, overnight. As soon as I unzipped the door, it was verified.
The remains of dinner mutated into a foul popsicle. No time for complaint, since the scavengers has mobilized at dawn... our tent ghetto was surrounded by Saturday-morning bargain hunters... getting fed and stowed away and back on the cranks seemed the better alternative. Dudley mentioned that the ghost town of Bourne was only a twelve mile ride on gravel away.
Middle finger salutes, all 'round. Thankfully, the terrain was kind en route... gently rolling hills, the highway bordered by miles of old gold mine "tailings" (the real name for those ten-foot high barrows of crushed rock). The horizon, though, was framed by a wall of mountains straight ahead, backlit by unreal blue skies... the first ripples on the backside of the Rockies. In one day, Oregon would be behind us. Lunch was had in the restoration yard of a forgotten railroad... parallel steel rails converging with infinity, with no destination.
Baker was the goal for the day... a pleasant little town that never left the early sixties. Less pleasant was the waitress at the Blue & White, so exasperated with a table full of lycra-sheathed aliens that her presentation of dinner was measured less in taste , more in decibels: that gal played a mean percussion by slamming utensiles, stacking plates on top of our food. Must've missed that job on Death Row, bitterly. It became another bonding experience, though... Henk had become a fringe member of our twilight tavern stalkings. The more, the merrier. |
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