Thursday Tosh

Thanks for all your good wishes yesterday about what I am now calling the Little Job. It's not that big a deal, really, given the money and the hours but it accomplishes a few things, not the least of which is effectively ending my summer as of tomorrow. But I realize that 99.9% of you work full-time and have 2 weeks, maybe, of summer anyway so whining about that would probably not warrant any sympathy. So I won't.

Pamelamama left a comment celebrating "worthwhile work". I don't know that this qualifies. It's hardly my dream job. The more I think about it, my dream job is building a miniature replica of all the sets for "Battlestar Gallactica" and selling tickets so people can come see my little tiny Play-doh® Laura Roslin and Bill Adama. So I'm looking at this as seed money for that project.

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Here's something else I haven't mentioned yet:

A few weeks ago Seattle Coffee Girl asked if I would be her doula when Buffy comes. Of course I said "yes". One of my dearest friends was with The Spouse and I when I brought forth The Child and I swear it wouldn't have been accomplished without her. There's just something about having another woman there, whose been through it and knows you well, to make the job just a little easier. Plus, I'll have the privilege of being one of the first people ever to see the little beggar and that's exciting to me.

I should point out that the use of the word little in this instance is ironic. He looks to weigh about 9 pounds already and her due date is September 2. Can you say "inducing"? "Yes, miss, I'll have a gin and tonic and would you bring a Castor oil on ice for my friend here?"

It's all terribly exciting. It's been a long time since our circle had a baby around and he stands to become one of the most fawned over babies in history. Do keep her in your thoughts and prayers, won't you?

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People were grumpy in my house last night. That was lame.

Here's what a typical evening looks like. The Child is usually off playing or zoned out in front of the TV. I'm usually in front of the computer. The Spouse comes home. We say "hi". Then he gets in front of the computer. And sometimes, sure, the greetings are a bit more effusive than "hi" but we all stay in our separate little areas until it's time for dinner and I don't know but I'm thinking that isn't optimal.

When we first got back from France, years and years and years ago, we adopted the concept of apertif, having a nice leisurely drink, a little nibble of something and some polite decompression conversation when The Spouse came home. Then he'd be left to further down time while I got dinner ready. That was nice. And we totally got out of the habit because frankly, our culture doesn't really support that sort of thing. We're really just not a "take some time and have a leisurely anything" sort of culture.

Hurry up and get out the door. Hurry up and work. Hurry up and take a break but hurry back because there's work to do. Hurry up and cook dinner and eat it in 10 minutes because I have homework/a meeting/a TV show at 8. Oh! Look at the time! I'd better hurry up and get to bed.

Our family doesn't even really operate at such a frantic pace most of the time but that "hurry up" thing is still at play somehow anyway. I'm feeling a serious need to don some pearls and greet The Spouse with a nice dry martini when he gets home tonight. May sound a little June Clever but Ward and June had it going on.

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And finally, this song has, for no particular reason, been on my mind for days.





"It's My Life" Talk Talk

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Now I have to go put baking soda on The Child's foot. She's sporting her second yellow jacket sting of the summer and she's not happy.

Sunday Morning in Chicago

Oh man.

I have met John Iwanski.

It's all gravy from here on out.

Yesterday Jon and I took the El to the north end of town to do some grocery shopping. We passed Wrigley Field and I held my hand over my heart. I love old ballparks. Got to the store and invented our menu in the produce department. Then it was off to Jack and Steve's...old friends of Jon's...who have a bigger kitchen and a dining table that seats 10 (we had 11). We spent the afternoon cooking, talking, drinking wine and occasionally just plain giggling because after emailing back and forth about food and sharing recipes for over a year there we were, cooking together.

The menu:

Tapenade with crackers and a nice rich bleu cheese for apertif. A mixed green salad with shallot vinaigrette and a goat cheese crouton. Big fat pork loin chops that had marinated all afternoon in garlic, red chilies and olive oil. (The Spouse grilled them up for us). These were accompanied by a cherry and jalapeno salsa. Steamed asparagus with a compound lemon butter and lemon zest plus summer squash and pine nut gratin rounded out the main course. For dessert I made strawberry-nectarine kabobs drizzled with caramel and served with creme fraiche that had been mixed with sugar and limoncello. It was all just fine. But you didn't come here to talk about the food, did you?

Did I mention I met John Iwanski?

I admit. I got a little nervous as the afternoon progressed. But all of a sudden, there they were, John and Miss Healthypants, MHP's niece Stacy (who is getting married next weekend and drove down from Wisconsin to meet me...yeah, I was honored) and Stacy's future SIL, Nayla (beautiful young woman from Lebanon) plus a chappie named Harry who's a good buddy of Jack & Steve & Jon's. He reminded us of The Cardinal so we've named him the Chicago Cardinal. 'Cause we're like that.

It was a terrific party. Lots of good wine, good food, a surprise cordial that Steve brought out at dessert (whiskey flavored with maple syrup. Seriously. Delicious). I was seated across from Jon and there were times I'd catch his eye and just give him a "can you frakking believe this" look and he knew exactly what I meant.

It's probably not fair to do this but I must. John Iwanski is a great guy. He's famously shy and described by his wife as a hermit. But a hermit with social skills. He's as funny as you'd expect, smart as you'd expect. He's also a genuinely nice guy. Really, truly nice. Sometimes I'd look down to the end of the table to verify that he was really there. Oh, I know. Gushing. But let's say you were at a dinner and, oh, I don't know, found yourself seated with Cyndi Lauper. Wouldn't you be pinching yourself? And wouldn't you subsequently become somewhat charmingly insufferable about the fact that you had dinner with her? Of course you would. Well, that's me about Iwanski.

MHP is absolutely adorable and funny. Stacy was a frakking hoot. Nayla was lovely, and she really gets snaps for being thrown into that situation and comporting herself with such grace. It was one of those parties where there were 3 or 4 conversations going at once and you didn't know which one to join. But I suppose the best part was just that it didn't matter that we'd never met before. That bit of it was dispatched in about 30 seconds. And let's face it, it's just terribly nice when reality exceeds your expectations.

After bidding our hosts a very goodnight, we all walked to the train together and rode back downtown to "our" place. Wine, laughter, talking, some singing. (MHP has a really nice voice, btw). Wandered down to Iwanski Manor for a bit more of the same and then Jon walked us back home and hung for a while. He and The Spouse have bonded over Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

The Child is currently singing karaoke (Uncle Iwanski loaned her his Playstation). The Spouse is perusing the packet of tourist info Iwanski graciously collected for us. And I'm starting to think that we should wander out and find ourselves a brunch somewhere.

And yes. I have pictures. But I haven't figured out how to download them yet. Just know that when they appear, that will really be me with John Iwanski. No photoshopping involved.

The Spouse and I were taking our coffee on the balcony this a.m., reviewing the fun of last night and both basically feel that we could sit on that balcony and admire the view for the rest of the week and this would have already been the best vacation ever. The fact that there is more to come....must stop now and catch my breath. We're really glad we came to Chicago.

Go Cubs.

Partly Something

I'm not a meteorologist. I guess that's why I can't understand a weather report that says, "Partly cloudy with a chance of showers this morning, turning to partly sunny and a chance of showers this afternoon".

The Neighbor and I planned my 50th birthday party last night. It will be...wait for it...a French bistro theme. You did not see that coming, did you? It will be superfantastic. You're all invited. We also worked on a Rat Pack themed party for The Spouse the following month. We did that for his 40th and it was really fun. I suppose I should have run that by him before I told you but hopefully he won't mind. You're all invited to that one, too.

The Child thinks 50 is old. Funny. Because this morning I heard a birthday announcement for some musician who played with the likes of Bob Dylan. He was 66 and I thought, "Wow. That's young". Guess it's more of that partly cloudy/partly sunny thing.

I've never had a crisis around what my friend Pat calls "the speed limit" birthdays. You know, the ones that could be posted on a street sign. I was thrilled about turning 30 because it meant that no one could ever again get away with telling me I wasn't old enough to do/say whatever. I maybe hadn't yet experienced all life has to offer but hey, I was 30. That's a grown-up.

40 didn't freak me out at all. I've noticed that the people who are bothered the most by an age like that aren't really satisfied with where they are in life. By the time you're 40 you expect to have "done something" with your life. I was happy in my marriage, I had a kid, a house, pursuits that interested me. I'd been to England and France. And New York - twice. There was nothing to complain about.

50 feels the same way, only more so. Going into 50 I'll be able to say that I've been published. I'll have a job I like (still don't know what that is but I'll have one). Maybe by the time I turn 50 I'll have a pygmy goat and have learned to make chevre (that's on my list of life time goals). I still feel as young as I ever did, just more confident. Plus, when I look at women like Oprah, Helen Mirren, Susan Sarandon, or Diane Keaton I think, "Oh, yeah. Older looks good".

Hence, my 50th celebration will be just that - a celebration. Anyone showing up with black balloons or "over the hill" cards will be summarily dismissed from the festivities. I hate those people.

So anyway, back to the party. We'll have apertif and dinner over at The Neighbor's. She's going to hire an accordion player. Then we'll go to our house for cake and karaoke. I realize the later isn't particularly French but I like doing karaoke and it's my birthday. Then at midnight, when I officially turn 50, we'll drink champagne. Won't that be fun?

Hi. I'm So Glad It's Sunday.

I am sorely in need of a day of rest. I will not be getting out of my jammies. The glorious madness of non-stop parties is over, leaving me a happy little puddle of weariness.

But enough about me. Let's talk about the Carnevale feast, shall we?

Ah, Carnevale! One of the most favorite of all our feasts, the time when no regard is given to calories, carbs, grams of fat or any of that other nonesense. Time to eat large, drink plenty and generally indulge; it's one last fling with the table before the fast of Lent begins.

The party began with a little apertif of wamed olives with orange zest (pretty much my signature apertif snacky thing) and champagne or sparkly juice. Beads were donned.

The first course was a little wedge of paté with cornichon and crackers. I did not make the paté myself because Trader Joe's has a very good country style one but one of these days I'll get around to making my own in the proper little paté terrine that Nicole gave me long ago. (I also used to make cornichon from itty bitty French cucumbers that I grew myself. Note to self: find some seed again this year because that was just plain fun).

We have the same salad each year for Carnevale, a very simple toss of chopped celery and shaved Parmesan in a lemon juice/olive oil dressing. It is a surprising combination of refreshing crunchiness. Ancient Romans would secure celery leaves around their heads as a preventative to hang-overs.

Then came the main course, which is always lamb, but this year involved the discovery of something called ras el-hanout, which is Moroccan for "superfantastic and gorgeously aromatic powder of heaven". There wasn't time this week to go to the souk in the Public Market, which would no doubt have had many variations on the theme so I had to make my own. Never having used the stuff before nor having any idea what it is supposed to taste like, some research was involved. Ras el-hanout is like curry powder in that there are common ingredients to all the recipes but personal twists are given the concoction from region to region, cook to cook. Some of the recipes read like something you'd find in the notebook of a white witch and there wasn't time to search the city for many things unpronouncable. I finally struck on an accessible combination of cinnamon sticks, cloves, fenugreek and the seeds of mustard, coriander, cumin and fennel. One of the common ingredients to the mix, however, is rose petals. The co-op only had rosebuds for craft use and I didn't know if my Valentine roses were free of pesticides or whatever so I threw a pinch or so of rosehips into the mix.

All these lovely things were slowly warmed in a heavy pan until little seeds started popping and incense-like fragrance began wafting through the house. Then everything was whizzed through the spice grinder until reduced to a sneeze-inducing powder.

Instead of leg o', this year we did racks o' lamb. The Spouse rubbed the racks with the gorgeous ras el-hanout, then seared the lamb and tossed it in the oven to roast. Then the roasting pan was deglazed with shiraz and honey was added to the wine. I had mixed a few tablespoons of rosewater to the honey, to help make up for the absence of roses in the spice rub. The sauce cooked down to a silky little pot of yum. I have a bit of a thing for a good sauce and this one goes onto my list of "Top 10 Most Delicious Sauces Ever Eaten".

The lamb, which I can really only refer to now as My Favorite Lamb Dish of All Time, was accompanied by the following:

Bleu Cheese Potatoes Delmonico (involving quantities of butter and cream plus some emmantaler that was lying around because you can't have too much cheesey goodness).

Artichoke Heart Gratin, which was stupid simple. The original recipe called for cooking the artichokes in Italian dressing but I figured that was just fussy so used marinated artichokes to begin with. These were cooked by themselves for about 10 minutes, then mozzerella cheese was sprinkled over it all and baked some more, then the dish was sprinkled with french-fried onions and warmed for 1 more minute. It was, um, really yummy.

Green beans tossed with toasted hazelnuts (that ReeRee whacked into little bits for me) and lemon zest, olive oil, salt and pepper completed the plate.

Between dinner and dessert we have a pre-Lenten conversation wherein everyone shares his or her intentions for the coming fast. We draw names for our secret prayer buddy, who we will keep in our prayers during Lent. (In Holy Week we send out what The Child calls "love letters", revealing ourselves). After the sharing and a sung Our Father and a little Sanctus in Latin, it's time to get back to the table.

This year we had 2 desserts. The Neighbor, who came very very late because she was singing in a concert, procured for us a King Cake, baked fresh yesterday morning by a gentleman who is originally from New Orleans. It was very good, with lots of crunchy sugar on the top but as yummy as it was last night, it was even more spectacular this morning with coffee. King Cake, which actually has it's roots in Epiphany, has a little surprise baked into it and the person who gets the prize has the honor of procurring next year's cake. That would be Jerry.

But important as observing tradition is, one also needs something rich and decadent for dessert. This year I made tiramisu, from blog buddy Dariush's recipe. Hello. Let's just call it what it really is, shall we? Coronary in a Trifle Bowl. But what a way to go.

Layers of ladyfingers soaked in coffee and marsala (because I was too lazy to get amaretto) between which lurked cups and cups of luscious filling (marscapone cheese combined with a whipped egg yolk/sugar thing combined with thick cream). And for a little extra Carnevale glam, I also sprinkled grated chocolate between the filling and ladyfingers. Just before serving it got a nice sprinking of unsweeted cocoa. (I doubled the recipe, Dariush. It turned out really well. Thanks again). It was the best tiramisu I've ever tasted...rich and flavorful but with a good balance between all the elements, which is usually where tiramisu fails, imho.

And then there was the post-prandial indulgence of Scotch or a last glass of wine. The Neighbor arrived just as everyone else was preparing to take their sated selves away so she got to give out hugs and then The Spouse and I sat with her while she ate the plate of food we'd kept warm for her. And then we took our tired selves to bed and I didn't even care that there were still dishes to do. Someone will get around to them eventually.

The Great Bistro Feast of '07

For the past 4 years we have donated a "French bistro feast for 4" to the auction at The Child's old school. Except that by special arrangment, it is purchased every year by the same group of people and there are more than 4 of them. They bring the wine, we do the rest.

We have always had a superfantastic time at this event (and it looks like we'll do it again because this year Sandy procured it before the end of the first course) but this year seemed like the most fun yet. I don't even know what it was in particular but we just laughed all night long and it was beyond enjoyable.

Plus, and I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, but dang! This year I surprised even myself with the general tastiness of the meal. Seriously, if I'd had this meal in a restaurant I would be telling everyone to get themselves post-haste to Chez Whatever. It was that good.

Apertif was, as always, green olives that have been sprinkled with orange zest and gently warmed. Goes great with champagne.

For the first course, I baked a little loaf of honey-wheat-walnut bread. This was toasted and served with a rough country pate (no, I didn't make it myself...Trader Joe's has an excellent one), a little smidge of Dijon mustard and cornichon.

The entree was a beef daube that was so superfantastic I want to make it every week. First came a mix of tomatoes, onions, garlic, capers, anchovy paste & cornichon that was then layered with thin slices of chuck roast. Add a bouquet garni and cook all afternoon and voila! a pot of sheer ambrosia.

We served it with a gratin of potatoes, parsley and cream plus a little dollop of a carrot-yellow pepper puree (mostly just for color but it was really tasty).

Here's the progress of the gratin: first a buttered dish and a bay leaf.

Then potatoes, each layer sprinkled with parsley and salt. Pour cream over it all, top with dollops of butter and another bay leaf and bake.

Couldn't be easier.

Sometimes I got so engrossed in hostessing that I forgot to take pictures of the food. Can you believe that? But after the entree we had a delicious salad of arugula, pancetta, Kalamata olives and large shavings of Parmesan, tossed in a lemon/olive oil dressing. Very refreshing and tasty. Then there was a cheese course with more of the walnut bread and table water crackers. 3 cheeses, manchengo, chevre with warm honey and a blissfully good Stilton with cranberries.

For dessert, I made crepes which were rolled around vanilla ice cream and frozen. They were served with raspberries and a hot fudge-rum sauce.

This leaning tower of ramekins gives you an idea of the state of the kitchen afterwards.

But we didn't care because this is what it looked like in the other room:

Bastille Day

On this day in history a mess of French people stormed the Bastille, a big prison that was the symbol of all the evils wrought by French kings and queens during their centuries of rule and cake-eating. There were only a few prisoners in the Bastille at the time, most misdemeanors, like ordering vin blanc with steak and dressing badly. But it was a powerful gesture and touched off what we now know as the French Revolution, without which we would not have the Statue of Liberty or Freedom Fries. So there.

I love the French, as you well know, and am part French myself so we will celebrate. Because I will use just about any excuse for a party.

First we're going over to The Neighbor's for cocktails with the couple that lives next door to her. They have been renting the house for over a year now and we talk over the fence and say things like "We really should get together". So we finally are. I'm going to make some lavendar honey to pour over crotins of chevre, which will be served with crackers.

After apertif we'll come back home to listen to Edith Piaf and eat our traditional Bastille Day supper of bouillabaisse with lots of crusty baguette. I'm going to say "yum" now. Yum.

Here's my recipe for bouillabaise, which I simplified from a very simple recipe in Pat Wells' At Home in Provence. Traditionally, you make a fish stock from the bones and heads of fish before you start the soup. She does this as well but I don't bother. I find that my version is fishy enough without that trouble and besides, it's gross. It makes me sing that song, "Fish heads, fish heads, roly poly fish heads. Fish heads, fish heads, eat them up, yum". Which is fun but that's as far as I really want to go.

Bouillabaise

2 pounds monkfish, grouper, striped bass or cod
3 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 head garlic, cloves seperated and peeled
1 t. fennel seeds
Bouquet garni of parsley, celery leaves, fresh bay leaves and sprigs of thyme
2 t. sea salt, or to taste
2 T. tomato paste
2 T. pastis
1 14.5 oz. can of whole plum tomatoes in juice
6 ripe tomatoes, peeled and quartered
1 and 1/2 quarts water
1/4 t. cayenne pepper
1 small fennel bulb, trimmed, quartered lengthwise and cut into bite-size pieces
small pinch of saffron threads
grated zest of 1 orange
3 T. minced fennel fronds
Aioli (you can make it yourself but Trader Joe's has a really good one that's already to go)

Cut the fish into 3 inch pieces.

In a large, heavy stockpot, heat the oil over moderate heat until hot. Add the garlic, fennel seeds, bouquet garni, and salt. Cook gently without browning for 8 to 10 minutes. Add the tomato paste, pastis, canned & fresh tomatoes, water and cayenne. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Lower the heat and simmer for 45 minutes. Remove and discard the bouquet garni. Using an immersion mixer, roughly puree the liquid. (Or run everything through the coarse blade of a food mill and return to the stockpot). Taste & adjust seasoning. Add the fennel, cover and simmer gently until the fennel is soft 15 minutes. (If you want, you can do this way ahead of serving time).

When ready to serve, bring the liquid to a very gentle simmer until heated through. Add the saffron and the fish. Lower the heat and cook gently just until tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Adjust seasoning.

To serve, transfer portions of the fish and fennel to warmed bowls. Spoon the broth over the fish. Sprinkle with orange zest and fennel fronds. Pass the aioli at table, so guests can swirl a teaspoon or two into their soup.

Serve with lots and lots and lots of crusty bread with butter.

Viva la France!

The Simple Life

The volunteer intern at the Cantwell office is a guy named Phillip. He just got back from a trip to Sri Lanka, working as an observer for their recent elections. (Just so you know, when I was his age I was figuring out how much money I needed to party on the weekend and still have enough for the Nordstrom half-yearly sale). We had a good catch-up chat yesterday and he was talking about the more profound lessons he reaped from his trip...like how much stuff he has, how much more simply he wants to live now, how even staying plugged in all the time via cellphone and Internet has lost some of its allure. I can't personally see taking it that far but I admire those sorts of life altering revelations. We experienced something similar when we got back from France...we were watching less TV, having apertif every evening and eating smaller portions more slowly, that sort of thing. The trick, always, is to stay mindful of those commitments and not get sucked back into the madness of American culture. Which is more or less what happened to us. Although we still eat later than most Americans and we still say "D'accord", when we think of it.

Anyway, that sort of "how the other half lives" eye-opening is what is great about travel, if you want it to be.

We got a mild little wake-up last evening. We were sitting in front of the Food Network eating pizza (a treat for a mid-week evening) and all of a sudden the power went out. There wasn't a storm or terrorist attack. But the whole 'hood was plunged into darkness. It was a little freaky at first, as those things are, but it wasn't that big a deal. We had candles and flashlights. Most of our clocks are battery operated. I tried to do the Abe Lincoln thing and read by candlelight but after a few squinty minutes decided that whole thing was over-rated and just went to bed early.

The power went back on around 10:30 or 11. There were no major inconveniences. "Gilmore girls" was a rerun anyway. And let's face it, one of the perks of living in the Big City is that the grid is pretty solid. Power was restored in no time so there was fresh coffee and the NY Times on line in the a.m. just like every day. Still, it was good to be reminded of the conveniences of life, to realize how easy we really have it and how truly great it is that we don't actually have to study by candlelight (although God knows we looked mighty attractive in the soft glow).

I am also experiencing the minor inconvenience of being carless as Fergie is in the shop having that stupid emissions issue addressed. But I got a shuttle home and The Neighbor is picking up The Child from school. I'm not crazy about this or about the cost of the repairs (which are still unknown but with my car luck will be far more than I want them to be). But there's room on the credit card to deal with it, which is a blessing. The Neighbor is a generous person, which is a blessing. The dealership has a shuttle, which is a blessing. I'm home in front of my electrified computer, which is also a blessing. I'm not starving, chronically ill, cold, naked or homeless. Just a good thing to reflect on such things every once in a while.

La Vie En Rose

This Edith Piaf classic is one of the hits in the soundtrack of my life. I love it and one of these days I'm going to learn to sing it. It was one of the many French tunes that played during our Bistro Dinner Saturday night.

I know you're just dying to know what we ate. 'K. First course was apertif. When we were in France every apertif was composed of peanuts, olives and champagne, so that's what we served. This was followed by an amuse bouche of parmesan baskets filled with herbed chevre. Salade was a Pat Wells recipe, Cheesemaker's Salad, which is freakishly simple and delicious. You steep thin sliced shallot in red wine vinegar for a few hours. When it's time to serve you toss the vinegar and shallots with mixed greens, then toss the salad with a few tablespoons of heavy cream. Sounds kooky but it is lay-down-your-fork-and-make-yummy-noises-good.

Soupe was a bisque of roasted tomatoes, garlic & shallot.

The entree was bourride, poached white fish (in this case rock snapper) with a light sauce of aioli and shrimp. That was served with salt roasted potatoes.

Then it was time for fromage: Basque Shepherd's cheese, Stilton, brie champignon and some chevre that I had marinated in oil with garlic, red chilies, basil and pepper. Then and only then did we have tarte tatin with whipped cream.

Oui, it was yummy. Oui, the company was tres manifique and mais oui, the kitchen was piled to the ceiling with dishes afterwards. It was all bon, tres bon.

(What is pas bon are these riots in France. I have an email in to my friend Nicole who lives in Laval. I know from her that tensions between the French and their immigrant population are nothing new. I just want to know what's really going on. I'm a little skeptical of the US press casting this as a Muslim thing when it seems to be more related to poverty and discrimination. Whatever is going on, I don't like it and it is very upsetting to my little Francophile heart).

Returning to a lighter, rose-colored note. Last night, though still significantly fried from Saturday's fete, I made plate cooked salmon for the Family and The Neighbor and then we watched the West Wing live debate. I am getting a real kick out of West Wing this year...it's a giant exercise in "what if". What if a Christian Democrat ran against a pro-choice, atheist Republican? (What? You can be a Christian and a Democrat? Mon dieu!) What if we turned conventional issues on their head? What if candidates had a "real" debate? Seems to me that we need to have a different conversation about a lot of issues in this country, using different language than we've been accustomed to and this show, entertainment though it be, is showing us what that might look like.

Plus I just about plotzed when Jimmy Smits' character owned the name of "liberal". He cited "liberal" contributions to American life, like ending segregation, getting the vote for women and African-Americans, creating Social Security and Medicare, to name a few. Then he said, "What did conservatives do? They opposed every single one of those things. So if you are going to throw that label of 'liberal' at my feet, Senator, I'll pick it up and wear it as a badge of honor". 'Bout freakin' time. Oh, wait. I just remembered he's not a real candidate.

To top off this madcap weekend we watched "Iron Chef America", with Morimoto facing off against Seattle's own Tom Douglas. The secret ingredient was wild salmon and Tom kicked the Iron Chef. I think it would be fun to judge an Iron Chef competition. Unless the secret ingredient was offal and I had to eat sweetbread ice cream. Eeeww.