Behold The Power Of Sake And Hubris

This image is more blurry than I would like it to be. I'd blame the camera phone, but I'd had a lot of sake to drink by the time I took this.

For me, the first carafe of large, cold sake always goes down like water to a dying man in the desert. It is sweet. It brings life. It fixes all that has gone wrong before it. In the space of about 20 minutes.

I had pain that needed killing. For the record, dry shaving your legs to save time and hot water isn't worth it. Morning ablutions oughtn't need recovery via Percocet. Booze is acceptable though because the sun is always over the yardarm somewhere in the world. I'm not an alcoholic; I'm just sharing a cold one with my antipodean neighbors. Because they're somewhere in Australia. I hear they drink there. I'm at 42.376N and -71.236W. You run along and do the math. I'm too drunk.

Anyway, we went to our usual sushi hangout. We always seem to end up there low on blood sugar and ready to eat everything that had the temerity to drop dead and get packaged as a comestible. Ever. We consumed a variety of lovely maki and sashimi. Much alcohol was ingested. They just bring it to us and I'm not of a mind to tell them no. That would be rude. Sometimes they even comp it.

Mr. Scoop went outside for a cigarette. It was about then that I got the Hubris^TM.

Several years ago, I was served a gratis handroll at a Korean place in Harvard Square by an itamae that I was fairly certain was hitting on me by the end of the evening (beware the custom of buying your sushi chef a frosty beverage if you're alone and single. That's all I'm saying.). Anyway, the roll was uni and seaweed salad on a rice. It was weird, but damn tasty because of the texture contrasts of the creamy, briny sea urchin and the crunchy sesame flavored seaweed. Not good enough to sleep with the sushi dude, but still, pretty damn fine. I later tried ordering it at a sushi place in Jamaica Plain and the guy behind the bar just looked at me funny.

So, tonight, I remembered the roll and asked them to bring it to me. I heard the guy behind the counter ask for clarification from the waitress no fewer than three times. Two guys left the kitchen during this time. Mr. Scoop had returned from his cigarette and I'd told him what I asked for. "See", he said. "You made the kitchen staff walk out. I hope you're happy. No more freebies for us. You shot our comp wad."

The roll did eventually find its way to the table. It was every bit as good as I remembered. And, while they did occasionally visit us with odd looks over the remainder of our meal there, we still got a comp'ed dessert.

The Body

I celebrated Easter by making rabbit:



It's a Gordon Ramsay recipe, Rabbit Fricassée with Tagliatelle.

I decided to serve the rabbit with items that it might have eaten out of the garden:

Asparagus with Oyster Mushrooms and Shallots

Roasted Beet Salad

and

Spicy Carrot Salad

I'm not sure if actually eating bunny on Easter is traditional, but it just seemed right somehow. Plus, Mr. Scoop had requested that I make the recipe again (I debuted it last Easter, actually) - and the local supermarket actually carried them in the fresh meat case about a week before the holiday. I bought three rabbits and nestled them carefully next to the dead hooker frozen pizza and Hot Pockets.

The biggest challenge this year was that the rabbit came as a whole carcass instead of already cut up. I needed to cut it up into pieces parts before I could cook it. If you've ever owned a cat, a whole rabbit is kind of disturbingly similar in shape and weight. Mr. Scoop actually had to leave the room while I proceeded with my butchery:

	The Whole Bunny
	The bunny minus its legs. I'm proud of myself because I cut cleanly through the joints. Look out Jeffery Dahmer Emeril!
	Gordon says that once you get the loins free you should roll them up in the belly flap like a cigar. It will protect the loins. I don't think you can argue loin protection, really.
	The bunny even gives its kidneys for this tasty dish! Frankly, a lot of this part of the prep was like reliving my Human Anatomy and Physiology final all over again, but with less fetal pig and more Easter Bunny. I'm probably going to Hell. Oh, yes.

But, ultimately, the recipe is worth it. Really.

Happy Easter!

Nabooti Is Not Nairobi Is Not Uganda.

"That thing with the four circles? Yeah. Don't touch that." Mr. Scoop gestured to the crude black and white wire frame map that, currently, existed only in his pickled by Jack Daniels mind. "It's a stove top. Fire brings pain." He nodded to himself as he said this.

"Are you channeling slam poetry?" I asked, perplexed. Eyes wide shut and flailing incoherently, this is the god of our New World Order. Mr. Scoop, Lord High GM of Shadowrun. I said as much. My mistake. "Doctor Mister Lord High Game Master Pope Monsignor of Shadowrun, thank you very much. Esquire. I'm a doctor in Uganda, goddammit."

"No, you're not", I replied.

"Don't test me, woman!" he ejaculated. "I have papers!"

"You have a Choose Your Own Adventure book about The Lost Jewels of Nabooti. Which might qualify you to cut people open in a third world toilet, sure. I don't know how these things work. I'm just not sure it qualifies as cyberpunk is all."

"Do not question the almighty Game Master! I ride the lightning. I am he that brings pixilated geographic goodness to your band of canny travelers over the InterTubes so that you may game without having to leave your homes. I make Windows dance like a monkey in a virtual environment on my desktop while I run Linux in the background. While I'm taunting 40 year old men who pretend to be 13 year old girls in AOL chat rooms. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. And...I've got problems, Captain. I'm not right...", he began to trail off.

"Don't question your God", he finished quietly.

And, so he commanded. And so it was done. As far as he knows. He passed out shortly after that.

I Do It All For You. All Of It.

A rousing round of "Let's Drink The Hangover Away". Yes. This has made my day more bearable. I am full of sake and raw fish products. I now hate being awake marginally less.

I drank so much last night that I forgot finishing whole bottles of Chardonnay and accused them of hiding themselves from me out of fear while I opened bottles of Sauvignon Blanc in retalliation. I was lots of Fun^TM for a healthy chunk of the evening. Reportedly. I lack even the most vague memories of going to bed. For all I know, I was teleported there by aliens, jammies and all.

In short, it was a good Saturday.

In other news my butcher, Dave, is concerned because his cat has gone gay. The cat started a bromance with his former roommate's cat. It too was male. There apparently was snuggling and mutual grooming. Then the roommate moved out and now the cat pines and Dave wakes up with the cat on his face. Ish. Face-ish. I was more concerned about the words "bromance" and "cat" in the same sentence. These are the stories I endure in order to secure high quality meat products. Dave, or at least his cat, knows his sausage.

No, I'm Not Judgemental. Nor Do I Have An Overly High Opinion Of Myself. Really.

Mr. Scoop does a killer John Belushi as Joe Cocker impression. I may have mentioned this before. "Why is this relevant?", you might be asking. Well, we just got done listening to a podcast made by, I'm sure, a very well meaning individual who wants entirely too badly to be as funny as Mr. Scoop. Like, called him and asked him to listen to it and everything. It wasn't. It wasn't even close. So, we figured if we were going to be amused by the idea of derivatively channeling someone else's funny, it'd be us goddammit. We sang along loudly to "Up Where We Belong" with the windows open as we mainlined Jack Daniels. And the Lord saw that it was good and assuaged us of the awkwardness of the podcast.

No. I'm not going to link to it. I'll just leave you to imagine the not funny.

Fun as it was to sing along to 1982's greatest contribution to pop music since McCartney and Jackson released "The Girl Is Mine", I had a larger agenda: although the cold has finally left my chest, I continue to suffer from some laryngitis which mostly affects my upper register. I discovered this when I let one of my seniors bring in his X-box 360 so the class could play Rock Band on the day before February vacation started as an alternative to watching a movie (because you know no one does work in their classes the day before vacation starts. Really.) I graciously volunteered to sing lead for the band when they attempted Boston's "Foreplay/Long Time", because that's the kind of kind, giving teacher I am. Of course I also pointed out to them that if I found any covertly uploaded video, from a cell phone that they aren't actually supposed to have in school, for example, of this event on YouTube then Bad Things^TM would happen. Possibly followed by Very Bad Things^TM. So far, nothing has turned up. Which is good, because I mostly embarrassed myself as, apparently, the late Brad Delp could hit notes that my congested, phelgmy ass can sit around and dream about. As I check YouTube for incriminating footage. So far, nothing. So far, everyone still passes for the semester. So far.

Lost!

So, were you also totally sucked in by the premiere of Lost last Thursday? I was. I continue to be.

Which Lost Character Are You?


Created by BuddyTV

via Redneck Scottsdale Princess

I'm not sure I agree with the outcome, but, on the other hand, I suppose it's not outside the realm of possibility to be the character who hears voices that isn't Hurley. I'm just not laid back enough to be Hurley. And I don't have a bitching Camaro.

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On a completely different note, this has to be the best Craig's List post ever.

Ever.

As you peddled away crying, I realized that I had over reacted. I was having a bad day and had just spent a lot of money on a new paint job, but pulling a gun on you was out of line. I’d like to make a formal apology in person. Over a bottle of wine and/or dinner, perhaps?
via Dethroner

Now I just need to figure out what Mr. Scoop was doing in Portland, Oregon.

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Oh, and Mr. Scoop has scored us lodging for Comic Con in San Diego for this coming July. We're already registered for the convention, because the thing just keeps getting more huge and we wanted to make sure we'd be there for all of it. Nothing like coming out of a whiskey blackout to discover your vacation is sold out. So, get ready California - we're coming back!

Some Solutions Are Simple

Punxsutawney Phil has seen his shadow and thus determined we will have six more weeks of winter. I say, we should have shot him yesterday. You can't see your shadow if you're dead.

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In other news, I'm still sick.

"You've been sick?" I hear you asking (well, the 3 of you that still come by on a semi-regular basis anyway).

Yes. The illness that spawned Plague Bunny continues to hold fast to my tender insides, specifically my chest and nasal passages. On the upside, I don't begin my mornings yelling, "Why am I coughing up blood?!" That would be Mr. Scoop. And he even went to a doctor, who told him he was fine but sent him out for a chest x-ray "just in case" (of what? tuberculosis?). However, I still have crap rattling around in my chest like a phlegmy Ghost of Illness Present, which leads to wheezing and general irritation on my part. I also have laryngitis. My kids are thrilled...except when I give them large worksheet packets of SAT vocabulary skill building to work on so they will be quiet and I don't have to take a sick day. I need those sick days for my car, of course.
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And, speaking of my car, I finally have gotten to the point where I may actually buy a new car to replace the 92 Geo Prism that I have been driving since I purchased it in 1994. The Prism failed its inspection today. Something about the muffler and/or exhaust system. I'm waiting for them to call me back with an estimate. This would be the fifth or sixth time I've replaced some part related to the exhaust in the last eight years. I've had enough. I think it's time to let the car die. However, it's not as simple as I'd like it to be.

I had to call my bank to track down a really ancient auto loan that I finally paid off in 1999. I never was sent my title. They're going to send me some sort of paperwork that I have to bring to the DMV to submit other paperwork there and get a corrected copy of the title that shows that I'm actually the owner of the car. Then I can finally buy a new car. 20 business days from now. So, in the meantime, I'm going to have to pay for the work on the exhaust system. Dammit.

And, if I have new car, I will also have to start coming up with new reasons why I can't go home and visit on a regular basis and why I feel justified in taking a sick day when there is an inch of snow on the ground.