Comfort Reading

The topic has been going around on "comfort reading." I have a mix of specific books as well as certain authors:

Anything by Graham Greene
Anything by Milan Kundera
Travels in Hyperreality by Umberto Eco
Misreadings by Umberto Eco
The Baron in the Trees and Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
The Shock of the New, Nothing if not Critical, and Art in America by Robert Hughes
The Lexicon of Musical Invective by... argh. Drawing a blank, and the book is at my parents' house
Any of the Chez Panisse Cookbooks
Anything by Phillip K Dick
Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Any of Shakespeare's Histories and Tragedies (and most of the Comedies, but not Merry Wives of Windsor. I hate that play)
East of Eden, Cannery Row, Grapes of Wrath, and Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck
The River Why by David James Duncan
The Searunners by Ivan Doig
Continental Drift by James Houston
At Play in the Fields of the Lord, Far Tortuga, and The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe (don't ask)
Hell's Angels and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
The Sun Also Rises, Death in the Afternoon, and the Green Hills of Africa by Ernest Hemingway
The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass

These are all books that I can slip into like a well worn pair of slippers. There are probably others, but these come immediately to mind. For one thing, I did not mention Philip Roth, who should be on the list, but I would have to think about which books are comfort books and which books are not. I like them all, but some of them I like in a different way.

The View from the Air

Terry Teachout mentioned that he could not think of artists who used the vantage point of airplanes as inspiration for their art. I sent him a little note about Richard Diebenkorn (especially the Berkeley paintings of 1955 - not so much the Ocean Park paintings, for reasons I will get to later). Then I remembered what Wayne Thiebaud has been up to for the last ten years - scenes of the Sacramento River delta that can only be imagined from an airplane (the delta is just too flat to have any spectacular hill views that would yield these paintings). There is also a photographer, whose name escapes me right now, who shows at the Triangle Gallery in San Francisco. He takes some startlingly abstract-looking photographs from the air.

Anyway, this is the cause of my latest bout of insomnia, so I am gathering examples up for a post on painting from the air. If you know of any examples, please either comment or email me at EKeilholtz@aol.com. Thanks!

Cultural Inthenthitivity

I realize that it has been way too long since I posted some knee-jerk pro-European Culture thing on the blog. What have I been thinking? People will think that I have embraced Hindooism or something. Anyway, I was reading another blog that mentioned the city that was named after my favorite gin.

This city is in India, which is now independent, so I am told. The Indians have been calling it Mumbai, which just sounds too much like Mumbo, which makes one think of Mumbo-jumbo, which seems like something India would be better off without. So, I have unilaterally decided that on Eriksrant this city is not only staying with Bombay, but actually going back to the proper Bom Bahia, which is the original Portuguese anyway. If you have trouble finding Bom Bahia, look at the map and find Ceilao. Now, trace up the Western coast of that triangular sub-continent and you will find Bom Bahia.

I can understand wanting independence (especially from the English), but why trade in a good Portuguese name? So, by order of the Blog Duce, all references to this city on this here blog will be to Bom Bahia. Not only is that the best way to honor the place, but it keeps it from being confused with Bombay, which, as everyone knows is a gin.

Now, some smartass will inevitably bring up Rhodesia, but there is a difference. Rhodes was a complete jerk and not at all Portuguese. We can let the name Rhodesia go the way of the dodo bird.

Risotto pizze

Whenever I make risotto, I make about double what I am going to serve, although I am not that crazy about reheated risotto (maybe the first day, but it gets pretty gummy that way). However, one can make it into discs, dip it in a light batter and fry it in olive oil. Then top it with whatever toppings you want, heat it in a 400 degree oven and enjoy.

Another good way to enjoy leftover risotto is to make it into little balls, poke your finger to the center and stuff with prosciutto and provolone, seal, dip in batter, breadcrumbs and fry in olive oil.

Or, you can make a risotto torte, in a pastry crust with layers of braised greens and cheese (or egg/milk/cheese like a quiche). If it is a saffron risotto, try topping with shrimp and crab (and, if you have it and want to go over the top a bit, finish with lobster oil). For the crust, I would recommend using a standard savory crust made with fresh rendered lard.

It is good to know these things, because it is not much more expensive and certainly no more time consuming to make a double batch of risotto when you make it, and these leftover dishes are almost as good as a bowl of steaming risotto. Amalia gives her endorsement to the risotto pizza, provided it is generously painted with Italian sausage or Spanish chorizo.

Still writing!

Unfortunately the lettering project keeps me too busy to do much blogging. The things we do for friends! At least I am having fun on my flourished italic hands. I normally prefer more sedate hands, but for this wedding they want lots of curlicues. So, bear with me, and I will reward you with a good post on art or music or a good recipe (cooking has been minimal until I get this thing done).

By the way, I hate to be the bearer of good news, but I had a disagreement with the IRS over something, namely that they adjusted my return (without an actual audit, thank God), and was dreading the inevitable conflict with them. However, they are being really helpful and efficient. The suspicious side of me is on alert, but they really don't seem to be horrid vultures looking for any reason to ding me. It looks to be all resolved in my favor, with much help on their part. Wow! Who woulda thunk?

Beware of the Insomniac

It is always dangerous to read what I write after midnight. So be warned. I was in my messy studio working on a lettering project (yes, I will do scribe work, but generally only for friends, as nothing is more tedious than that - it hurts the hands, hurts the eyes, makes the scribe paranoid (WAIT, I must QUADRUPLE check that spelling), and is one of those crafts that only experts really notice the nifty stuff in (make my day, notice the letterforms I invented, praise the balance of the ascenders, go ahead, it won't hurt)) and thinking about the great scribes, the monastics who have left us all those glorious illuminated manuscripts.

If I think that my eyes and hand hurts after two hours, what must it have been like without balanced electric light, without the ease of a steel pen, without the relatively easy to use modern inks (no tedious grinding for me, thank you)? Yet, for all of their difficulties, they produced much better work than most of what any of us moderns will ever do.

Likewise, we live in an era where our modern machinery should allow us to run circles around ancient builders, but we get that garbage that they keep throwing up nowadays. There is a school being built in Oakland, called, fittingly enough, given the Commie bent of our school district (housed in the Paul Robeson Administration Building), International School. It looks like a postmodern concentration camp. I doubt that the poor children, who really are international in their makeup, will get the irony that they are being incarcerated (good word to use, keeping in mind the Oakland School District and what passes for teaching here) in a showpiece concentration camp. "Look!" seemingly says the District, "at all of our International students! The diversity! The languages! The dress! And here they all are, safely behind chainlink fences (for their own protection, of course), for you to admire!" BLEAH! Of course it is International because the City, ever wanting to look hip, renamed E. 14th St. International Blvd. Locals still call it E. 14th St., especially people who live on or near it.

I am sure that the folks at the Paul Robeson Building love to go to International Blvd. to feel the vibe or whatever leftists do these days.

But I digress (see, I told you). Architecture. Yes, that's what I was thinking of.

There are exceptions. I actually find myself consistantly admiring much of high modernism (although I have yet to see a modernist house that I would really want to live in - great lines and proportions on some of them, though), and even some post-modernism (The Portland City Services Building is one that I keep finding myself wanting to look at when I am up in Portland), but most of what is out there is really bad.

Modernism works when it is either extremely well-proportioned or absolutely cheeky. I love the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco. I walk under it at least once a week, and there is something dazzling about it. When they light up the Embarcadero Center it is an absolute feast for the eyes. But most of it is just more unremarkable cheap building, hiding its cheapness in a veneer (or anti-veneer) of faddishness.

The latest fad to assault the eyes is the slanted window, looking like the top of a control tower. It is supposed to be a reference to the industrial past, a reminder of an age of men with thick necks and rough hands. "Remember, passerby, that steel was fabricated in this neighborhood!" But nothing screams effete technogeek better than phony industrial trappings. They forget that the managers were the ones who sat up in the offices with the slanted windows. In their rush to distance themselves from the white collar world, they have enshrined it, but in a silly and patronizing way.

It seems that every other new building in the City is full of these goofball slants. What, pray tell, are the inhabitants supposed to be looking down on? The alleys below? The airshaft? Well, nothing, as the windows are there to show the outside world how hip and trendy the builders were.

Latin America is full of bad modernism. It always looked old and worn, even on the day that it opened. There is nothing like tropical weather to severely test ideas worked out in the Temperate North. Concrete can really look awful when subjected to daily rains and rusting rebar.

And this is where we get my test of art and architecture: is is beautiful when it decays? Think of the Colloseum. Think of da Vinci's Last Supper (without all that nonsense that is floating around as a result of the stupid book). Then think of the Pan Am building. I admire a lot of Gropius, but that one looks (last I saw it, which was a few years ago) to be in about the same shape as the airline it is named after, or at least it is headed in that direction.

I firmly believe that we must tend to the cultural before the political, because that is the only way to turn our society around from the direction it is going. We must ask ourselves why we cannot do better, given the great tools we have. We should not ask ourselves why THEY cannot do better, rather why WE cannot do better. In whatver pursuits we are in we need to ask this. Artists need to ask ourselves: "why can't we paint as well as Piero della Francesca, given that we know how he did it, we have better materials (well, no one has improved that much on fresco), we have better lighting, etc.?"

For Catholics (especially Italians) it is too easy to point the finger on the rest and say, "well, what do you expect from artless Protties/secular nihilists/etc." But that will not do. We have been commanded by the Sacred Council to engage the culture, and we cannot do it by pointing fingers, nor by retreat. I know that when I look at my work and then contrast it with what our culture once did, I do not come out on top.

Anyway, enough late night musings/ramblings. Comment away!

No art talk today

Amalia wanted to go to the farm yesterday, so we did not make it to any museum. We did get to feed some magnificent dairy shorthorns, some lovely geese, a sow that was the size of a bus, goats (yawn, the thrill is not in feeding goats, but in not feeding goats), and sheep. We also looked at the pictures of the different breeds, and I showed Amalia what traits to look for in a fighting bull. It was a perfect day for the farm: weather in the 60's, clear blue skies, all that wonderful stuff, so it is probably better that we were outsided instead of inside. Unfortunately it has started to rain, or we would go to the Ardenwood Farm tomorrow. Trudging through mud is not fun, and they will not be running the horse drawn train. So, perhaps we will find ourselves in a museum tomorrow. Then you get some art talk.

Friday Five

At this moment, what is your favorite...

1. ...song?

"Arrivederci Roma" as sung by Claudio Villa

2. ...food?

Duck confit with spicy mixed greens and a good pinot noir

3. ...tv show?

That great one when the set is off and I am reading a book. Otherwise the Teletubbies (although Amalia is not too keen on it, so I have to wait until she is in bed).

4. ...scent?

Wild mushrooms or maybe pancetta being gently fried in goose fat.

5. ...quote? Well, paraphrase, as I do not have it in front of me:

"When one sees a woman preach it is like watching a dog walk on two legs. One does not marvel at how well it is done, rather that it is done at all."

Upcoming attractions

I might be at SFMOMA tomorrow, in which case I will blog about what is there, otherwise I won't. If we don't go there, we will probably go to a gallery of some sort, so there should be some art talk coming up. I don't think that I will make the return trip to the David Ireland exhibit at the Oakland Museum this week, so a comprehensive discussion of Ireland, Bay Area Funk Art, Conceptual Art and the like will have to wait.

As for food, I have really not done anything that exciting since the duck confit, so you will have to wait until a wave of creativity hits me (unless I find out about some new thing at the Ferry Terminal Farmers' Market).

I am finishing up the Hughes book on Goya, so a review will be forthcoming. I am still not up to writing anything big on Fellini, as much as I might be tempted by Steven Riddle's discussion of the Responsibility of the Artist, mainly because I would end up spending too much time on it, and I really should be spending the time on writing for filthy lucre.

Ah yes, filthy lucre, filthy lucre. When I was in High School it seemed like a great dream: get paid to write! Wow! To be a professional writer! Does it come with cape and theme music? Well, no, not really. And with the demise of the manual typewriter and hats and chainsmoking, whiskey guzzling newspapermen, even some of the noir romance is gone. I do have to admit that I have a probably unhealthy love of hate mail, especially when it is misdirected and completely illiterate. There is nothing more fun than finding 100 emails in my inbox adressed to a colleague telling me in vastly substandard English that I am an idiot because I do not see the brilliance of whatever flash in the pan my colleague panned that week. The irony is that I have yet to have even heard of the folks that are so vehemently defended by their teenybopper fans.

"Your revue was unfair. X does to sing with emotion and for you to say that he is all commercial is unfair. Maybe you dont like him but you don't have the right to say that he is bad."

If you ever want a reason to despair over our education system, trade email addresses with me when a colleague pans the next American Idol and my address is stuck on the byline by mistake.

So that is what is coming up on Eriksrant. I hope it doesn't bore you too much, but if it does, please send me an email telling me so in no uncertain terms!

Electrolux Brouhaha

I have to admit that I have not gone digging around the issue of the Electrolux plant closure, but I think that there is a significant issue that must be addressed (and note that I am not offering any solutions to it).

I read some material today about a system that will move the printing industry into an almost workerless process. The technology is here, and the equipment manufacturers are finally seeing its potential (although it has taken them long enough). When I had my first job in the industry, the big cost center was pre-press. It was labor intensive, with hours of careful film manipulation required to get proper registration of the four colors. Proofs had to be made and developed and changes were labor intensive. In fact, my theory at the time was that the success of a printing company depended upon a good policy of charging for alterations, as I could see how sloppy chargebacks could mount up tremendous labor costs that had to be absorbed by the company.

Since then, film is vanishing. The image goes from one computer to the next, proofs are no more costly than a good color printout, and the image comes out in a final sheet of film, or for the more advanced printer, directly to plate or even the press itself (although I can always tell a Quickmaster job, as the technology is not quite there yet).

There is really no reason that moving paper and ink (even mixing ink - and the need for special PMS colors will diminish with new, more precise 4-color process) to the press, running the press, moving press sheets to the bindery, binding, cutting and packing cannot be done by automated processes. Thus, a large printing house will be run with a shipping/receiving clerk, a few pressmen/mechanics (who will have to be really good, and thus highly paid), and a few computer guys (who will also be top-notch high wage fellows) plus sales, financial and management.

The printing industry is one with slim margins and heavy competition. As this technology becomes available it is inevitable that it takes over. A firm that cannot adapt will become completely uncompetitive and will fold. No amount of legislation, outside of the most quixotic attempt to ban the technology itself, will save the manufacturing jobs. This technology will make it unfeasable to move the plants to Mexico or China, as labor will become a minor issue.

So, quibbling over where a plant is for the next five years is a waste of time. The question is how to transition the work force into this new economy. Will we have enough service jobs to keep the workforce employed? Will we see a resurgence of artisanal goods for a more sophisticated populace that will provide good niche employment for more and more people? Certainly in the Bay Area, this seems to be the case. We are producing more and more hand-crafted goods of higher and higher quality than ever before. I can find more variety in small-farm produce than I ever have seen (like I mentioned last week, I found two vegetables in the farmers' market that I had never heard of, and there aren't that many vegetables that I have never heard of).

If we are going to look to a Catholic model for economics and community, we need to recognize the inevitability of technology and the transformation of the economy caused by that technology just as we have to recognize that money today is different than money in the past. Certainly I do not want to see workers out of work, but there are some awful jobs in manufacturing that I don't think would be missed.

WOW! We just had a little earthquake (very minor, probably with a close epicenter). The great joy of California: land surfing.

Anyway. Distributism offers some interesting ideas, but it is embryonic. I am by no means laissez-faire on anything. However, there are certain inevitabilities of the market that have to be recognized, because the market always strikes back. That is one of the reasons that I cannot condemn Electrolux too harshly, and why I am a bit disturbed by the rancor that is going around the blogosphere on this. We are facing a monumental change in our economy, and I think that Catholics need to address how to meet it.

New link!

I am surprised that I just discovered Relapsed Catholic. Anyway, even though I should probably add a whole bunch of other links that I have known about and enjoyed for some time, I am adding this one right away so I don't forget. Anyone who is as appalled as I am that the Stalinist ham actor and minstrel singer Paul Robeson is getting honored with a postage stamp is fine in my book!

Be sure to read the article she links on Robeson. He did make a good point, when he refused to support the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He said that the people involved were "the same sort of people who overthrew the Spanish Republican Government."

Paul, I couldn't have stated it better myself. And let me further congratulate you by saying that you were the sort of person who benefitted from the Spanish "Republican" Government. I sure you could have been Chief Minstrel for the Cause if they had won.

MLK

Sure, Martin Luther King was an important figure, but I cannot get into a holiday with "Martin Luther" in its name, especially with the word "King" so close. It sounds like Martin Luther, King, and that really grates. So forgive my lack of celebration. People would talk.

"Keilholtz is getting awfully ecumenical these days."

Likewise, I have no enthusiasm for Calvin Coolidge.

Iowa

What is the deal with Iowa? I thought that Caucusus were the border between Asia and Europe! Is this one of those London Bridge in Arizona things? How much did they pay for them? Someone had better explain things fast.

Seriously, though, I loved Dean's little rant. What was I saying? Oh yeah, petty, nasty, something like that. Come November I am going to miss his snarl.

I have my share of gripes about Bush (religion of peace? What was in his hookah?), but am still supporting him in the upcoming election. The Democrats are going to be caught in their perpetual dance of their own identity. If they are too moderate, they will lose their leftist fringe (who, by the very nature of leftist fringies are the energy of the party). If they are too fringy, then they lose their center.

This should continue to be a fun primary.

EDITED: avoid trying to type punny things in late at night, as you are liable to make typos.

Sunday Bread

One of my favorite bakeries, Arizmendi (although the website is for their sister bakery in San Francisco, as the Oakland one does not have a website), is a worker-run collective that was started by the famous (and equally wonderful) Berkeley Cheese Board Collective. They are named after the Basque priest who started the Mondragon collective in Spain. Their pastries and breads are universally excellent, although they do not do my favorite types of pastry, which are the magnificent flaky butter bombs of the croissant and puff pastry family. So much the better, because if they did, we would be very fat and very broke.

One of the things that I admire about Arizmendi (besides those pizzas, cheese rolls, Wolverines, etc.), is that they are closed on Sundays. I suppose it is the "creeping fascist" in me, but I find government interference entirely admirable when it closes businesses on the Sabbath. It is extremely difficult for a business to voluntarily close on Sundays, but here is a case of heroic virtue: a business that closes on its own.

One of the great parts of this is their Sunday bread, a dense, wonderful bread full of nuts and raisins, with a chewy crumb and robust crust. It is designed to be eaten as a day-old. I am all for traditions like this that allow one to have a tasty treat on the Sabbath without anyone having to work on the Sabbath to produce it. Panettone is good for that, too, as it certainly does not have to be eaten the day it is made (and some quite good ones are available commercially).

Duck Confit

This weekend I am making duck confit. Since I am using someone else's recipe (in this case Alice Waters' from the Chez Panisse Cafe cookbook), I am not going to post it verbatim. Go out and buy this exceptional book! Confit is basically an old way of preserving meat: salt and season the meat overnight, then slowly cook the moisture out in a crock of fat (in this case goose fat). Since you do it at low temperature you can reuse the fat, either for other cooking (it will be salty, unlike pure rendered fat), or to make another batch of confit. Since we have modern means of preserving meat (freezers and the like), it is something that is only done for the aesthetic reason of having yummy confit. It does keep much longer than raw or simply cooked meat, so it does make a great convenience food. Twenty minutes max on day one, then it cooks slowly with a minimum of supervision on day two for an hour and a half. To heat it, you toss it in a hot skillet for five minutes on each side, and you have a yummy meal (that is especially good in cold weather).

Since Waters' recipe calls for just duck legs, I went to my favorite poultry shop and bought legs. If I had to buy whole ducks, then I would have either made the breasts into confit, or would have made duck breast prosciutto, which is a great treat to have on hand. I was surprised at how cheap it was to buy a big bag of duck legs with thighs attached. Since it is so rich and can last so long as confit, I think that I am going to make a policy of always having a crock of it on hand.

One can eat it traditionally, or one can make rillettes, or one can make amazing tacos with it:

Take your chopped duck confit and add a chopped chipotle pepper with plenty of its adobo sauce. Add some onion, some toasted and ground cumin seeds and heat it on the skillet. Put it on heated corn tortillas (don't fry them, for a more authentic taste), top with salsa, chopped onion, pieces of avocado (or a dollop of homemade guacamole: avocado, onion, lime juice, salt, maybe some salsa for color and flavor and cilantro) and cilantro. Serve with beer or margaritas.

For margaritas, I use a good 100% blue agave tequila (usually reposada), the juice of a freshly squeezed lime, triple sec (or Grand Marnier for a special occasion). I shake it on cracked ice and serve it straight up in glasses whose rims have been coated with lime juice and a light dusting of Comarguese sea salt. Once you have a margarita like that you can never go back to a mix, to non-100% agave tequila (like that awful Cuervo), or those wretched slushies that pose for margaritas among the chimichanga set. For a very special occasion you can float a layer of Grand Marnier on top of the ladie's drinks. Men should not do that on their own drinks, however, as that is very girly.

After duck confit tacos, the dessert should be simple, as the dish is so rich. I find that mango sorbet or gelato does the trick.

David Ireland

Yesterday Amalia and I went to The Oakland Museum of California. Amalia was mostly interested in the gardens, the natural history section, and the cafe in that order. I was more keen on the art collection and had a mild curiosity to see the David Ireland show. The gardens and natural history section certainly did not disappoint (terraced outdoor space for running around rarely disappoints Amalia), and the cafe was much better than I remember in the past.

As to the main art gallery, it was the usual delights and disappointments: great collection of California art, horrid lighting, a couple of goofy curatorial decisions. Using two incandecent spots on a Richard Diebenkorn Ocean Park canvas is absurd. Fortunately the bay with two magnificent canvases of the Sierra Nevada (one a view of Yosemite Falls by Thomas Hill, the other a spectacular view of King's Canyon by William Keith) are well lit, as it is a rare treat to be able to examine these paintings up close.

One of the great things about the Oakland Museum collection is the work of the Society of Six. For some reason, only a little of it is on display, along with a third rate piece by C.S Price, who was not a member of the Society, even though he was a friend. Displaying this piece does no service to Price, who did much better work.

Similarly, displaying Roland Peterson with David Park, Richard Diebenkorn, and Elmer Bischoff does nothing for his reputation. I hate to say this, as Peterson is intimately connected with the Sacramento area, and we tend to stick together (I am almost able to defend Mel Ramos on this basis, although his technique needs no defense anyway).

What was really fun was seeing the Ireland exhibit. I was expecting to hate it, as Ireland was too closely connected in my mind to conceptual artists (he was one of the first to turn Capp Street into their stronghold). We did a preliminary run-through (partially because I knew that keeping a steady pace would put post-hot dog and post-running around Amalia into nap mode, allowing me to come back for a longer look) and the first thing that struck me was how derivative Ireland is. His etchings are straight out of the Diebenkorn playbook, his early sculptures borrow from SF Funk Art, his paintings struck me with a strong familiar resemblance to Robert Ryman.

These strong resemblances struck me as interesting, given the artspeak babble cards discussing his "pushing the boundary of what is considered art, blah blah blah" (shame on you, Karen, for putting up some of the silliest artbabble of the year. Of course it is January, so Yerba Buena has probably already outdone you, and SFMOMA will soon, surely). There was one piece that legitimately pushed the boundary, and it was the only piece that struck me as silly: a pile of debris of the prior exhibit stacked against the wall, and that almost worked (with a little more work, I think Ireland could have actually pulled it off).

The thing about resemblances is that everyone has them, and the era of confusing a unique voice with a unique genre has played itself out. We no longer expect every artists to reinvent the wheel ("we" being serious artgoers. Curators and fashionable editors, however, still seem to be thinking that each artist must redefine art). In fact there are many great ideas that could use further exploration, and Ireland has done that.

Other than the one silly piece, even his most "conceptual" pieces are really concrete works of art, generally well thought-out, well crafted, and quite interesting. Particularly well done was the room showing his house (a Victorian that he completely redid inside as a living sculpture).

Before really writing about the show, I need to see it again, as there was a lot to think about and digest, but after one good, long look, I have to say that David Ireland has moved up several notches in my book.

Tonite! Three Weeks Only

Tonight the North Beach Lectura Dantis at the National Shrine of St. Francis of Assisi will begin our three week exploration of St. Bonaventure's The Journey of the Mind Into God (Trans. Philotheus Boehner, OFM). We meet at the National Shrine of St. Francis on Vallejo, between Columbus and Grant, at 7:30 this evening. We will read the first two books together, so you don't even need to do the advance reading this week. If you are in the Bay Area, come on by!

Then, beginning in February we will once again find ourselves lost in a dark wood with Inferno. We use the Durling/Martinez edition and ask that you have read the first three or four (I will find out tonight whether we will start with three or four canti, as Inferno has that extra one) canti. If you want more information about the Lectura Dantis, please email me at EKeilholtz@aol.com or ask in the comments box.

Puns in Risotto?

Someone found this site with a search for "puns in risotto."

As a matter of fact, I am going to make risotto tonight, with skin and fatty trimmings from a fat goose, which is, of course, oca grassa.

I was planning on making that anyway, having forgotten about Marinetti's use of that pun in the Futurist Cookbook. I did not even think about the pun until I started to write on what an amusing search engine request that was and realized "AH! I am making risotto with a pun tonight!" Go figure.

To understand the pun, translate into French.

Quit looking at me that way. I never promised you a great pun, I never even promised you any pun. This is a freebie.

Sausage and Two Buck Chuck

The sausage shop in the Housewives Marketplace in Oakland makes great Italian sausages. Today for lunch I browned them (in their casings) on a cast iron skillet with a slight brushing of olive oil, then poured in a generous amount of Charles Shaw "Gamay Beaujolais" and covered, cooking on low heat until the sausages were done and the moisture was almost all cooked out of the pan. Yum.

Charles Shaw makes lower-mediocre wines, when it really comes down to it. They cost $2 and that is about what they are worth, but for certain cooking purposes they are fantastic. And, I have to say, as an accompaniment to a simple lunch of sausages and cheese (Danish fontina for me, String cheese for Amalia), and simple salad, the Beaujolais (which is 75% pinot noir) was fine. At $2 a bottle, it was magnificent. Of course we are finally seeing some great deals on decent table wine. I have been paying $5.99 a bottle for a red that tastes like a cross between a Super Tuscan and a Super Piemontese. When I can get wine this good at this price, it takes the charm out of Two Buck Chuck.

However, the fact that we have so many inexpensive and decent table wines is very good indeed. I remember when good, cheap wine was rare, with very little choice (of course those were the days when the Boomers were guzzling that wretched white zinfandel) if you did find a place that carried some. Then there was a period when the price of even rather modest wines went up fairly steeply (Big House Red for over $10 a bottle?!? Don't get me wrong, I love all of Bonny Doon's wines, and this one in particular (we served it at our wedding), but Big House Red was one of those great $6 staples, and to pay $10+ for it smarts). But now, thanks to outlandish overplanting, the prices are becoming good again.

Of course farmers will tear out their vines, and the whole thing starts over again, without the benefit of the old vine base that would have been in place were it not for the strangeness of the market. One thing that I am bracing for is the onslaught of horrid Merlots (I actually had a "white" merlot at a tasting a few years back - yuck). I never could understand why people liked this varietal, as it has always been a blending wine. Once in awhile I will encounter a merlot with some character, but usually they are fairly insipid wines.

The Hackberry Ramblers

Last night our local public television station aired John Whitehead's documentary on the Hackberry Ramblers, the trailblazing Cajun band (first band to record "Jolie Blonde" under that name, first amplified Cajun band, etc.) that still is going strong 71 years after Luderin Darbone and Edwin Duhon put it together in a utility building (they were banned from using the Darbone living room as a rehearsal space). It was a good documentary with a good blend of interviews, footage, and shots of rural Louisiana.

Darbone and Duhon are still in the band (both are in their 90's now) and are still close friends. Ben Sandmel, the young fellow who plays drums, as well as manages the band, produces their new records, and hauls the heavy stuff around, has a duty that is quite unusual for a band manager. Whenever the Ramblers travel, he has to find the schedule for masses at the local Catholic church, as Darbone has not missed a daily mass since 1957! Refreshingly the documentary did not portray Darbone's piety as some strange abberation, rather as a source of strength (I met the director when he was interviewing Chris Strachwitz at Arhoolie, and he did seem like a decent guy).

Recently the Ramblers have had some great times, with lots of touring (including European tours), appearances on the Grand Ole Opry, the New Orleans Jazz Festival, and MTV, National Heritage Awards, and general acclaim. Last year Arhoolie released a disc of their first recordings, taken from 78's, which is a great record.

Anyway, I highly recommend the music of the Hackberry Ramblers (you can find their best stuff on the Arhoolie website) and if you have a chance to see the documentary, it is definitely worth an hour of your time. I have no idea how well distributed it is, as it was on a KQED program that features the work of independent film makers, so may have just aired locally this time.

Howard Dean

I, for one, am getting sick of hearing how Dean is turning on young nudniks to politics through the Internet. If I hear one more comparison between this nitwit and McGovern I might have to close my eyes and howl "Richard Nixooooooooooooooooooooon."

Fortunately, these youngsters will get all fired up and log on to a million silly websites and when Bush wins again, they will get bored and return to a life of quiet alienation. As I frequently tell young people: "hey, voting just ratifies the MAN. Your vote won't count anyway. Why endorse the ruling elites by participating in their sham elections, dude?"

But back to Nixon. There is something I have always found fascinating about the man. I read the transcript to the newly released tapes and I picture the drunken ex-Quaker with five o'clock shadow in his slippers ranting to one of his stooges.

I figure that if the American people were ever suckered into, I mean, ever elected me to be President, Richard Nixon is the sort of leader that I would be.

I can picture myself in a silk smoking jacket and slippers, with a cut crystal glass of whiskey in hand, wandering the halls of the White House mumbling semi-incoherently about "the stinking Commie democrats" to one of my stooges, who will have to ratify every goofball thing I say:

"Yes, Mr. President, I believe Clinton was a closeted Russian, yessir, that sounds about right. And I will see about offing Donaldson, right away, sir."

The thing is, I can in no way, shape or form picture myself being any other sort of President. Dictator, yes, but as an elected President, I am afraid I would just be Nixon, Part II. The job would positively drive me to drunken flights of paranoia. I can't figure out why anyone would want it, and I am glad that Bush is the sort of person who can keep a level head in that situation.

The thing is, I don't think that Dean or Kerry or Sharpton or La Rouche (he is at it again, I presume? No?) would be able to resist the temptation of maniacal degeneracy in the office. La Rouche would be entertaining in the Nixon way, but I am afraid that I would have to leave the continent.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't think that resisting maniacal degeneracy is the be-all/end-all to the job. Carter's degeneracy was entirely different, and that really scares me. I would take a hundred Nixons to every Carter, even would take a Ford over a Carter (unless the electrical system is giving me headaches again. In which case I would take Ford, but would want General Motors as Head of the Joint Chiefs). Of course this all suggests Presidential poker, which could be fun.

I'll see your Reagan and will raise you a Carter.

A Carter?!? I can't take it again. I fold.

But Howard Dean? Forget it. The good news is that he doesn't have a chance. He is not only an idiot, which isn't the worst trait in a politician, but he is vain, nasty, and petty, and nobody likes that combination in a politician. Take it from a Californian. We prefered this Action hero to someone who was vain, nasty and petty.

Music

John Salmon has hinted that I should write on music, and he is right, but something funny happened late last night. I have not been reading Terry Teachout for a couple of weeks, due to lack of time, but went to his site and saw that he is going through a period where music just doesn't do it for him.

I am certainly not going through something like that, although I have, when even Bach seems more of an intrusion than a pleasure. I have been more in a period of retrenchment, where I am only interested in listening to a narrow range of music, even to the point of playing a disc several times in a row to really dig into it (as much as one can dig into a recording when doing other things). Since Melanie can't stand this sort of listening, it happens late at night after she and Amalia go to bed. It has been Respighi these last few weeks (the car is a different story, where it is almost all country). Since I do not have a score on hand for these pieces (Roman Pines, Fountains, Festivals, you know the ones), I am not going to write an analysis (even if I had the score, I probably would not write something like that), so it will have to suffice to say that I am finding more in these pieces than I expected, even on multiple listenings.

Other than Respighi, I have listened to a new round of turkeys for record reviews, as well as three pretty good discs from the Rough Guide series. They will be coming out in February, so I will post reviews as we get closer to street date. For the country in the car, I have been stuck on Adolph Hofner's fantastic Texas Swing (sung in Czech sometimes!) and Sam McGee. Both are Arhoolie titles, and are great.

If I have energy after panning one of the crappy discs on my review pile (or maybe I will review something better that has been out for a little longer, as I hate giving any ink to garbage like these), I will go back and write another installment of the Building Blocks of Music.

Kitchen terror

I am not a baker. Melanie usually does that. If I use an oven, it usually involves a gratin or roasting some hapless animal. Once in awhile I will bake something, but it is rare. I have little patience for levelling cups of flour and poking at cakes with a sharp knife to see if there is any goo on the end. I get my kneading workout on fresh pasta dough, and I can buy great bread easily in the Bay Area. Sure, I'll make a pastry crust for a pate or a pie crust for pheasant, polenta and cheese pie, but generally I stick to the stove top.

However, Melanie enjoys baking, and she is good at it. Often she bakes some sort of yummy thing for our Monday breakfast on Sunday night. Today she and Amalia were down with some sort of cold and I was too lazy to rush out to buy breakfast food (go figure - too lazy to drive five minutes, but not too lazy to bake something. My laziness is probably more of a desire to stay in my lair). I thought that it would be fun to make panettone, but we were out of sultanas, and that brought up the driving issue.

Melanie wanted coffee cake, since I had nixed panettone. Fine. Coffee cake. Who doesn't like to start the day with a good, spicy coffee cake and a side of bacon? Sure. Then it hit me: this is one of those horrid recipes that confounds my every instinct.

The secret to a good coffee cake is to have a good "biscuit hand," which is a light touch with the mixing. To me, a proper coffee cake batter looks like lumpy dreck and conjures up images of biting into clumps of raw flour. Of course it doesn't work that way, but I have to seriously fight the temptation to just beat it into perfect smoothness.

But I resist! I pour this ugly, lumpy, oatmeal-looking goo into the buttered dish and put it in the oven and by some miracle or other, a good coffee cake comes out. It happens every time I have to make one of these things. I look at the batter and think: "nothing good will come out of this" but then it turns out fine.

There is a lesson in this, and a fairly basic one at that. Here is something that I know from experience, from authority (all good cookbooks stress undermixing biscuit-type batters), from history (watching others do it), yet it still confounds my every instinct and sets up my expectation of failure. And when the results confirm history, experience and authority, it still seems like something of a miracle.

When the object at stake is bigger and more consequential than a dollar or two of raw ingredients and 15 minutes of my time, yikes.

Goya postponed

I did not finish the Goya book this week, as I ended up getting caught up in Fellini's 8 1/2, which is possibly the best look at artistic indecision ever made. Until this week I had only seen the film once since I bought the DVD a few months ago(although I had seen it many times before). But I made up for it with about 5 viewings (only one a complete, start to finish viewing, however). I still love this film and will probably watch it through once again this week.

However, Melanie is getting sick of my humming, so I will probably have to give it a rest for a little bit, at least until the great Nino Rota score is out of my head. Also, my late night reading hours don't like being neglected and tend to rebel. I find myself waking at hideous hours with an itch to dig into a novel. I can only succumb to such an itch once in a week, or I get way too sleep deprived (reading late at night is dangerous for me, since I have "one more chapter then back to bed" syndrome).

So, no review of the whole Goya book, just yet. And, to tell the truth, I am not really interested in writing about 8 1/2 right now. I have some big questions about the work, and writing would have to get into those, and that would require too much other reading and watching and I simply do not have the time, unless I am being paid (ah, the crassness of it all, for love of filthy lucre!). So, if you want my essay on 8 1/2, make an offer.

Goya, I'll rant about for free.

Two exciting finds at the Farmers' Market

Yesterday I bought white beetroot with greens attached and sugarloaf chicory, both new to me. I will give a report on those when I have experimented. I am probably going to roast the beets, sprinkle them with vinegar and serve them with their short-braised greens. The chicory will probably get wilted and served in a warm salad (the farmer's suggestion). Full report later.

Experimental Food Report

I made the persimmon panna cotta, and it was quite satisfactory, although I probably should have been more thorough in blending the whipped cream into the gelatin cream. Since you will probably not be able to find persimmons until next fall, if you want to do this, I would recommend doing it with canned pumpkin:

I started with about a cup of cooked persimmon puree. I heated it up and added dry marsala, cinnamon, allspice, and freshly grated nutmeg. After it had cooked down, I cooled it and added a packet of gelatin. Then, I added about 3/4 of a cup of cream and heated it back up (but not to boiling, as that disturbs the gelatin). With the remaining cream from the pint (about a cup and a quarter), I added just under a half a cup of sugar, a dash of vanilla extract, and whipped it to stiff peaks.

After the first cream had cooled, I folded them in and put the mixture in a mold, which I then chilled. It was very good, but was definitely in two layers, which, if taken in a single bite were a good balance. I think next time I will work to get the two layers bound together better.

Goya

I am about halfway through Robert Hughes's biography on Goya. It is a good read (something Hughes can always be counted on to provide), but suffers from the usual faults that bedevil his writing - excessively self-conscious moments of cleverness, moments of vulgarity that seem calculated to show that while Hughes knows a great deal about art he is still an Aussie bloke who will sit down for a few Fosters with you, and a pathological dislike of Roman authority. At least he admits his status as a former Catholic right at the beginning (with particularly nasty digs at Venerable Pius XII and the devotion to Our Lady of Fatima) , so it is not like he is trying to hide something.

He fetishizes the "achievements" of Endarkenment philosophers and bemoans the fact that dusty and conservative Spain did not produce these things. Personally I would take a good bit of authoritarian dustiness over bragging rights to ninnies like Rousseau or later abominations like Foucault (you can probably reverse the adjectives and still be in the ballpark). He also makes a monumental mistake regarding the Inquisition, insisting, contrary to the good source he cites in the matter (Henry Kamen's Spanish Inquisition, published in 1997 by Yale University Press), that the Holy Office was obsessed with limpieza de sangre legislation. In fact the Inquisition was opposed to this, rather it was the nobility and royalty that kept pushing these proto-Nazi laws, in spite of opposition from the Holy Office, which was more concerned with doctrinal purity over some fetishized cult of blood and race.

Hughes also perpetrates the myth of the Inquisition burning witches. It simply was not that involved in this noble activity (it probably should have been, but seems to have found that sort of thing distasteful). Understand that I think very highly of the Spanish Inquisition as well as the general practice of burning witches, but cannot really credit these holy friars with that activity. As loathe as I am to give any credit to Protestantism as a body, they were much more active in the burning of witches.

There, that was my ecumenical moment for the day. Protestants did something good that Catholics were neglecting.

Please note that I am not offering a criticism on the methods of detecting witches. Perhaps they were ignorant of mental health issues, and were persecuting the sick, which was unfortunate, perhaps they were simply burning proto-radical feminists, in which case it was a happy accident. I don't know. I am simply approving of the burning of known witches. I am more than happy to accept leniency when the method of witch detection is unreliable (and what else floats?).

But back to Hughes and Goya. Something that really bugs me is that whenever Goya was genuinely pious and Catholic in his content, Hughes tries to whitewash it as either a cynical movement or purely cultural. In fact, the view of Goya as an artist is much more coherent if one accepts his pious work at face value and does not try to impose Hughes's own anti-Catholicism into the picture. In fairness, Hughes does let down the facade a few times and describes Goya as more anti-clerical than anti-Catholic, something that, given the state of the Spanish clergy of the time, is not that difficult to understand.

Also, Hughes insists on equating any concern for the common good on the part of Carlos III as an affection towards the Endarkenment. It simply escapes Hughes that one can be a good Catholic and want to see things like better public hygene, fair land reform, etc. Hughes prefers the myth that conservativism was inherently about furthering the misery of the Spanish people.

It would be easy to blame the Jesuits, who educated Hughes, and certainly my second impulse, after blaming the evils of the world on Protestantism is to point my finger at Jesuits, but Hughes seems to have drawn from standard issue secular humanism much more than 20th century SJ diabolism (yes, yes, there were and are some good Jesuits out there, I realize that).

What Hughes gets right is the thing that he always gets right: he knows how to look at art. Many art historians and critics simply lack the understanding of what makes art tick. They look with their ears and are too swayed by theories that are ungrounded from the actual experience of taking deep, long looks at art. Hughes is at his most enjoyable when he makes mincemeat of these theories, and he is always able to back his opinions up with the piece under consideration.

I am only at the halfway point, but will probably finish reading the book this week and will give a report when I am done. So far, I much prefer The Shock of the New or Art in America, though.

Lasagna

I believe that I posted my recipe for veal lasagna before, but tonight I did a variation on it that was interesting, but not entirely to my liking.

The lasagna is built on a base of ground veal, browned in butter with a hint of garlic, then cooked with marsala, goose stock (or brown chicken stock) and cream, with grated nutmeg and fresh cracked pepper. To this I add a generous amount of strained ricotta.

The other layer is short braised greens, which I described below. Normally I prefer mustard or collard greens, but all I could get was chard. It worked OK, but I missed the spiciness of the other greens.

Then I use a mixture of melting cheese (gruyere, emmental, fontina, mozzarella or a combination of them) and reggiano parmeggiano.

For the pasta, I use fresh sheets, so I don't have to boil them. In layering I start with the meat mixture (in a buttered dish), then greens, then cheese, then fresh cracked pepper and a drizzling of cream (creme fraiche is better), then a layer of pasta. The top layer should be cheese, because it browns nicely.

The lasagna was good, but would have been better with creme fraiche and spicier greens. I served it with a salad of heart of romaine, braised bosc pairs, blue gouda, and toasted walnuts. For dressing I made a standard vinegar/mustard/olive oil dressing, but added the boiled down braising liquid from the pairs. I highly recommend this salad for winter evenings.

I served all of this with Est! Est! Est! white wine.

1946 cocktails

One of my Christmas presents was a 1946 edition (sixth printing) of Mr. Boston's DeLuxe Official Bartender's Guide. Oh what fun! The cocktail has greatly improved along with the tastes of most Americans. Most of the drinks in the book are way too sweet.

Of course we have to understand that a lot of these cocktails came about during Prohibition, and the booze was of questionable quality. To mask this, plenty of additives were needed. For instance, the martini was once a very heavily vermouthed creation, which makes sense when you consider the quality of bathtub gin. I imagine that I might even enjoy a vodkatini if it were doctored up with vermouth and bitters, as this book suggests doing to the noble gin.

The other reason that these drinks were so sticky is that they were being served with food that borders on the bizarre. The section on snacks is a veritable catalog of what Lileks calls "regrettable food." Of all of the recipes, only a couple look remotely edible. What is really amazing is how labor intensive all of this junk was, mostly due to overly fussy presentation. I suppose if I had to eat and pretend to enjoy these things, a few sloe gin fizzes would have been essential.

I have always been puzzled over the disdain that European cookbooks have for pre-dinner cocktails, since I have never found the pre-prandial martini to be a sufficient impairment to tasting the dish, but looking at what folks were drinking back then, I understand. Americans were novice drinkers for the most part, often indulging in grotesque excesses of syrupy booze.

I cannot imagine any chef complaining about diners drinking one or two well-prepared modern cocktails (and knowing the chefs that I do, the idea of them complaining at all about alcohol consumption is really pretty funny).

Speaking of overindulgence in liquor, I continue to be baffled by New Year's Eve. Watching folks stagger (or worse) around North Beach is incomprehensible. They really don't seem to be enjoying themselves, rather they drink to the loss of reason as some sort of obligation, although to what I will never know. After dinner, I went with Amalia's godfather and one of the priests who was concelebrating to Mass at the National Shrine of St. Francis of Assisi. After Mass we had espresso and a couple of hours of pleasant conversation. Unfortunately mass ended at midnight with the blessing of the city with the relic of St. Francis, and a couple of hours meant that I was walking to BART at the same time that the bars were letting out. It seemed like one of those moralizing etchings of a parade of fools. Do the Mormons encourage this sort of thing so they can paint all consumption of liquor with the same brush?

If my own experience with booze was this, I would probably join the Temperance Movement too.

Anyway, Mass was beatiful as usual, but walking through the flood of drunks in the rain made me envy Melanie and Amalia (who were too tired after dinner to join us at Mass). When I got home they were sound asleep in the warm house, while I was cold, wet and baffled by the behavior of presumably otherwise intelligent folks.

I was also a bit miffed by the rain, as part of my New Year's Eve tradition is sprinting up Telegraph hill after the blessing to watch the fireworks. I was discouraged by the weather and was thus deprived of my annual exercise. I guess I could have made the run after Mass on Sunday, but it is a painful sprint up a steep hill and without fireworks, it just seems futile (I only believe in running for very good reason). I suppose I will have to go swimming or something to make up for it this year. Or perhaps carrying Amalia around (at 33 pounds) is doing the trick.

Persimmon panna cotta

I had a box of fuyu persimmons that were getting too soft, so I cooked them into orange goo. I think I will add marsala and turn them into a panna cotta (one cup of heated cream, with some gelatin solution added, with the goo and a touch of sugar, mixed then folded into a cup of whipped cream, then allowed to set in a mold). I will report on the results and will offer corrections.

Mea Culpa and a recipe

I have been without Internet access for the last week, which is why I have been scarce. However, I am back and will post on food, music, Californian politics, and the lot.

The other day I made a roasted capon, which was really worth describing. Capon is the best form of chicken that I know. It is what turkey would be if turkey had not been so debased by bad breeding. I used the classic French method, although I do not believe in trussing birds, as it is a lot of work that adds nothing to the dish. I do not truss my geese, my ducks, my chickens, nor my capons. I might sew up the cavity if the stuffing is too copious, but as to tying the wings down and all of that, forget it. Waste of time. If anyone is that offended by wings that stick out, they should stick with tofurkey or whatever ungodly creation is on hand as a food substitute.

Anyway, I dried the bird (another secret: washing them is not that essential - most restaurants do not do this, as you are sticking the thing in a hot oven anyway), rubbed it with salt, pepper and a liberal massaging of unsalted, cultured butter, stuffed it with a sliced lemon, half a sliced onion, and a handful of celery or lovage leaves and browned it for 15 minutes in a 425 degree oven. I lowered the heat to 350 and added a couple of chopped carrots and the other half of the onion, chopped (although I should have sliced it).

When it was roasted through, I let it cool on my cutting board, removed the burnt onion pieces from the pan and deglazed with cognac. Then I thickened the sauce with butter, finished it with port and poured it over the carved meat. Yum.

Roast chicken is a traditional Sunday meal in my family's region of Italy. I recommend this tradition highly. I served this one with short braised collard greens (heat olive oil or goose gat, add diced pancetta and a couple of peeled cloves of garlic, then saute the greens, adding fennel seed and diced truffled (or not) anchovies, then pour in some dry vermouth or white wine and finish cooking covered on low heat, finish to taste with salt and pepper) and a salad.

For dessert I braised Bosc pairs in red wine with a touch of sugar and a length of vanilla seed and served them hot with chopped toasted walnuts, crumbled Irish farmhouse blue cheese and a drizzling of creme fraiche.