Lima Bean Update

Last night I faced a terrible temptation. The lima bean size zit festering on my upper, left thigh would not stop talking to me. While braising spare ribs and making garlic-tomato soup, I would feel the lima bean noodle-maker rub up against my right thigh. Yes, the zit has adopted the old Iron Kids Bread song that played constantly at the end of TV commericals in the 90s, "Strong and growwwwwing." Between searing ribs, simmering whole tomatoes in beef broth, mincing garlic, and sauteeing mushrooms, a deep, satanic voice would scream, SQUEEEEEEZE ME.

I watched the tomatoes leaking their clear juices out into the brown broth. I stared at a toe of garlic the same size of the noodle-maker growing on my leg, SQUEEEEEEZE ME, as if that giant flower from the Little Shop of Horrors has set-up shop on my upper thigh.

I resisted for a total of five minutes. The clamorous SQUEEEEEZE ME convinced me to drop my pants right there in my kitched depsite the potential dangers that can become of a bare, defensless penis in the company of a simmering sautee pan and cast iron stock pot.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEZE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

The wee head of the lima bean of some five hours before had now developed into a whitehead the size of a match head. That white head centered in directly in the middle of all that interior puss looked like the eye of a hurricane. No. It was the eye of a hurricane. Staring down at the zit I felt like inside the zit there was a party going on, a party I wasn't invited to until the voice came again and again and intensified the more my pants stayed around my knees.

I squeeze that fucker as if making hommade lemonade. Only a trickle of puss emerged and a sense of guilt and feeling like a dipshit remained inside the now redding lima bean. I knew I'd provoked a beast.

In Praise of Zits

I want to tell you about an ingrown hair on my upper thigh. There is a large bump now the size of a lima bean with a wee white head festering with an industry with ooze that I absolutely cannot wait to pop. Each night before bed I pray and pray and pray that when it does come time to pop this mother-ship of a zit there will not be an eruption of puss; I pray for a swirling, spiraly, out of control noodle-like release. Those are the best kinds of zits to pop. The ones with the instant, Mt. St. Helen's type explosion are fun, but the noodle-makers (technical term) are by far the best. There's just something extremely satisfying about watching all that puss zip straight out of your own skin like a minature version of squeezing a tube of toothpaste.

This is not my first relationship with ingrown hair zits. Once I had one on my chest that I squeeze so hard that it blew out a pencil eraser size hunk of skin that has never grown back, which means there's a little, jagged dent there; I wear it like a medal. My last year of college I got an ingrown hair right between my eyes, the ever epic third eye. I provoked this goddamn thing so much that to this day you will see me walking around with a little red dot between my eyes. This is because I've been squeezing, prodding, hoping that some puss has grown there, that a thin, thin noodle with shoot straight out of my forhead. Most times zits are positioned in strange places on the body that make you strain your neck or contort your body to see when you pop them. Not this guy Paul. That's the name of my third eye zit, Paul. That's what he told me anyway. We've been pals, roomies, and partners in crime since 2001. Yes, he's eight years old. He is my first born. My only child. He's in second grade. He's the ooze of my life.

And Paul doesn't mind that Paulina, the lima bean sit has moved in. He knows she's only probably here for a little while. Or maybe not. I have to admit that if I had a lima bean noodle-maker zit I could pop every month, I'd be a happy man. And the best would be all the random places I could pop it when I just can't resist the urge, when I know this is the day the zit hath made for popping. Squirt. Squish. Squish.

In Praise of Pork

My vegetarian and non-pork-feeding friends will not appreciate this post, but I just can't fucking help myself.

I spend most Sunday afternoons and evenings cooking ahead for the week--parboiling pasta to flash fry for lunch and braising whatever kind of meat I have on hand so I can use bits of beef or pork to help season vegi entrees. But today, today was a day for PORK due to an amazing dollar per pound special. I bought eight pounds and fifty-one ounces of pork for, yes, $8.51. This rarely happens. Even better, the cuts in the "value pack" were perfect for what I like to cook: one center cut for roasting, spare ribs, and about eight hansome, bone-in chops. Thanks be to Cub Foods.

Braised anything is amazing. You could probably braise possum and it would be tolerable (depending on sauce and seasoning) especially considering that braising is the answer to making less desireable cuts of meat mouth-watering. Personally, I believe braised meat tastes best when you let whatever has been braised chill overnight in it's own sauce then reheat it. Marination.

Last night I braised the pork roast following instructions from the best braise recipe I have, which I have nearly memorized, in the best cook book I have. Today I reheated the braise and I must say I have never been able to peel, yes, peel pork straight from the roast. It was a heavenly braise.

With the left over braise sauce (you can reduce this to gravy if you want) I made homemade pork stock. Currently some of that stock is in with some homemade rice and beans I making in my slow cooker. The stock came out well and I've even got a little extra.

As for my apartment, it smells like heaven is a place on Earth. As for all the dirty dishes and pots and pans that piled as I whirled around like the Sweedish chef from the Muppets (wearing my PJs the whole time, mind you) the dishes are all clean. I consider this a personal triumph.

Hello, Again

It's a good feeling, returning to blog-world, though I never imagined myself a person to say that. Maybe I was going through blog denial for years due to zealous belief in paper journals. Wait. No. I was going through blog denial until beginning this little diddy of technological scribs and rants.

I've been absent for about three weeks and, upon this non-memorable return, quotes and images (some of them horribly cliche) enter my mind. For instance, I feel I've been a deep-running submarine on radio silence that's just now broken silence and the surface. Or maybe I am a the lone cowboy riding back into town at day-break after a long cattle drive to Texas or some other slaughter state. As for quotes, I can't help thinking of the Yeats poem, "Speech After Long Silence," (a work of beauty) though Yeats and I have nothing in common except, well, he couldn't spell well and I fumble vowels and those other thingies quite often.

Over the last three weeks I've been preparing for the semester of which I am pleased to report that I survived without the temptation to pack a sawed off shotgun. The first week started so well for me that I expect Oprah to call and ask if I am willing to share my success story with millions of weepy viewers at home. My answer to her is a proverb from the Willie Nelson section of the Bible, "You got the money, honey, I got the time." I'll sell my success story for cheap. Hell, I'll whore it out. Funding is tight at the Daveeeeeed Estate. I'm waiting for a bailout check from the federal government, but I'm neither a bank nor an auto maker, so I'll gladly take financial aid and agree to pay it back. Oh, yes, I'll take the financial aid.

I suspect a long post later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight. Stay tuned and I will too. I'll leave you with a horribly macho insult I just picked up which I think is both nasty, frightening, and awesome.

Insult: Hey, motherfucker. I'm gonna punch two holes in your neck and then me and that guy are gonna bump dicks.