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  • THE JERK.

    THE JERK.

    When I was completing my MBA at the University of Illinois more than a decade ago, I had a classmate named Bigby.

    Bigby was from Jamaica . He was in his late 40’s to early 50’s. He had a house with sound/light system, dance floor and disco ball in the basement. And he LOVED to throw parties.

    At one of Bigby’s parties, his wife (also Jamaican) walked in carrying a silver platter piled high with Jerk Pork.

    Now…I had eaten Jerk Pork many times beforehand—including at a roadside stand in Ocho Rios , Jamaica —and liked it. But Bigby’s Jerk Pork was on a whole ‘nuther level. It was thick, dark and heavy with spice. It had a pungency that would send your nostrils into spasm. And it was hot enough to melt your contact lenses.

    In short, it was a Jerk Pork that I’d remember on my death bed.

    And like a complete moron, I FORGOT TO ASK FOR THE FRIGGIN’ RECIPE!!!

    This unforgivable, life-ruining, lapse of reason has haunted me ever since. In short, it was a screw-up that I’d remember on my death bed.

    But alas…teeter-totter of life has a miraculous way of leveling itself. “Spoon”—the woman at Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc. whose office is next door to mine—recently emailed me a recipe for Jerk Pork that she claimed was barn-burner.

    Last weekend, Agatha and I made the recipe. I still can’t believe it. It’s as good as Bigby’s.

    Sing with me, bruhdahs!

    Won’t you help to sing
    These songs of freedom

    Cause all I ever have

    Redemption songs

    Redemption songs.

    JERK [FILL IN THE BLANK]

    The Marinade:

    4 Habanero or Scotch Bonnet chiles—do NOT remove seeds or ribs
    4 cloves garlic
    4 scallions
    1-2 inch ginger
    1 sprig thyme
    ¼ c. packed brown sugar
    4 t. ground allspice
    4 t. chile powder
    2 t. cinnamon
    2 t. nutmeg
    ¾ c. vegetable oil
    ¼ c. lime juice (fresh)
    2/3 c. soy sauce
    Black pepper

    Step 1: Puree the above ingredients in a blender until smooth.
    Step 2: Reserve ¼ c. of marinade for the Dipping Sauce (see below)

    The Meat:

    If grilling: Pork tenderloin; Pork chops; Chicken parts; and/or Skirt steak.
    If smoking: Pork Boston Butt; Pork spare ribs; Pork baby back ribs; Beef brisket; Chicken (whole, split vertically).
    Step 1: If you haven’t already, reserve ¼ c. of the marinade for Dipping Sauce.
    Step 2: Marinade meat for 24 hours in the fridge.
    Step 3: Grill or smoke the marinated meat.

    The Dipping Sauce:

    ¼ c. of reserved Jerk Marinade
    1 c. chicken stock or broth
    Step 1: Whisk together ingredients in a sauce pan.
    Step 2: Reduce on stovetop until thickened.

    Update (October 30, 2016) — Slow Cooked Jerk Goat Stew:

    The Chicago Cubs are in the World Series, and not doing very well.  So, in a civic-minded effort to break the Curse of the Billy Goat, we invited some Cubs fans/friends over for a lunch of Jerk Goat.  The butcher at the halal meat market (where I bought the goat) recommended braising the meat in a sauce, rather than grilling or roasting.  So I adapted the recipe above as follows:

    Step 1:  Buy two goat legs (approximately 7 lbs total), each cut into three large hunks.

    Step 2:  Triple the Jerk Marinade recipe above.

    Step 3:  Marinade the goat for 24 hours as described above, and reserve the rest of the Jerk Marinade (which will be a lot) in the fridge.

    Step 4:  Place goat hunks in large slow cooker.

    Step 5:  Dilute the reserved Jerk Marinade with chicken broth and beer.  You will want the proportions to be 2 parts Jerk Marinade, 1 part chicken broth, and 1 part beer.

    Step 6:  Pour the Marinade/broth/beer mixture into slow cooker until it covers the goat.  I also added chopped kale and peas, because my wife demands vegetables with her meal.

    Step 7:  Set slow cooker to “low,” and cook for 12 hours.

    Step 8:  Remove goat hunks from slow cooker, pull meat from the bones, and return meat to the slow cooker.

    We served the Jerk Goat with basmati rice and a creamy cole slaw (to reset your tongue when the habanero burn encroaches).

  • AND NOW FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF…”SILLY POEMS FOR IN-HOUSE ATTORNEYS.”

    My employer—Acme Low-Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.—takes Halloween seriously.

    Each year, it throws a spirited Halloween party for employees. Festivities include a live band, food, drink a pumpkin-carving contest, costume contest and—the intended piece-de-resistance—a departmental skit contest.

    I say “intended” because, in fact, only one department ever performs a skit—Human Resources.

    This year, in an effort to stoke a bit of much-needed competition, one of the H/R Managers asked me to re-write the lyrics to The Supreme’s song, “Stop, In the Name of Love”—hoping that it would inspire a group frayed and frazzled lawyers to perform it at the contest.

    Well…I knew that the odds of that happening were less than nil. But I wrote the lyrics, anyway—just to prove to myself that there remains some kernel of creativity in my increasingly weary brain.

    The lyrics are set forth below. I suppose that you need to be an in-house corporate lawyer to fully appreciate it. But, hey…I guess that anyone can appreciate a good, silly rhyme. Plus…I wrote it, so I might as well share it.

     

    STOP, IN THE NAME OF LAW.

    Baby, baby, you call this crap a contract?
    Seems it was written by a lemur that had smoked crack.

    Participles dangle like a pair of fuzzy dice.

    Your stilted prose would cause gastritis in both Strunk and White.

    But this time before I start to red-line.
    I’ll push your teeth in if you don’t push out the deadline.
    (Think it over) I think you’d better take a seat and grab a tissue.
    (Think it over) We need your input, this a commercial issue.

    Stop, in the name of law.
    Your logic has a flaw.

    Stop, in the name of law.

    Take my advice…withdraw.

    Think it over.
    Think it over.

    Baby, baby, a lawyer’s task is bitter-sweet.
    We fight our customers when they hold fire to our feet.
    Business folks complain that I’m the deal-blocker man.
    Then they come running to me when the poopie hits the fan.

    But this time before the LD’s* fall.
    And Finance VPs want to know just who approved it all.

    (Think it over) It wasn’t Legal, it was you who granted your OK.

    (Think it over) We can prove it, here’s your e-mail from June ‘98.

    Stop, in the name of law.
    Your logic has a flaw.

    Stop, in the name of law.

    Take my advice…withdraw.

    Think it over.
    Think it over.

    Baby, baby, I write contracts both day and night.
    At times it leads me to a troubling existential fight.
    Is this the highest use of my dry wit and writing skills?
    Why must my mind be ruled by IPR and poison pills?

    But this time before I boot my Dell.
    I have some breaking news that I must tell you.
    (Think it over) No more customer fights or pleads or bent-knee grovels.
    (Think it over) I’m gonna make my living writing romance novels.

    Stop, in the name of law.
    Your logic has a flaw.

    Stop, in the name of law.

    Take my advice…withdraw.

    Think it over.
    Think it over.

    [* Note: The acronym “LDs” stands for “liquidated damages” (i.e., contractual penalties).] 

  • LIFE IS A CORONET.

    When I was a wee lad at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School in Utica, NY during the early 1970s, my classmates and I were fed a steady diet of Coronet films.

    Coronet films were produced, more or less, around the time that Howard Taft was contemplating a run for the White House. And they taught me important life lessons like…always stick with dad when using power tools. Or, don´t drink too much soda pop before bed. Or, how Billy keeps his body clean.

    They also taught me that Thomas Jefferson Elementary School must’ve had a really, really paltry budget.

    For years I’ve been telling people about Coronet films, hoping that someone…anyone…might leap to his feet and shout, “Coronet! OMG…you grew up with those, too?!!!” Instead, they crinkle their brows and mutter something about a revenue recognition meeting that they´re late for.

    I was even starting to doubt my own memory when it hit me. YouTube! There might–just might–be a Coronet or two lurking in the bowels of YouTube.

    Was there ever! I present an especially kitsch-o-licious nugget above. And no…it’s not a parody. This is the stuff that made me what I am today.

    Hat-making contest, anyone?

    Thanks, but I think I’ll go find that girl who was bobbing for apples on a string.

  • SMOKE DAY IV, A COMMUNITY DURIAN, AND A HEY…I FOUND A HEAD!

    My friend Jai asked me last Friday what I had planned for Memorial Day weekend.

    Agatha and I are driving to Wisconsin for International Smoke Day.”

    “What’s that?”

    “It’s the one day each year that all owners of Weber Smoky Mountain smokers are supposed to fire up the pits and surround the earth with a smoke ring. A guy that I kinda know is having a cookout for the occasion.”

    “Have you met this guy?”

    “Not really. I just sorta know him through the Internet.”

    [Snorts] “You’ve never met him? What if he kills you and chops you into pieces.”

    [Pondering for a moment] “Well… for sure he’d make me taste good.”

    Quite honestly, I wasn’t worried. I have so far had proper, non-virtual, sight-unseen encounters Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn, Ang, Nerd and Michael–and all have been most pleasant and cuddly.

    So when Agatha and I met our host, The Headless Blogger, we were not surprised to find that he greeted us with a pair of bbq tongs–rather than a blood-encrusted chainsaw.

    And he not only has a head, but also a name: “Boney Dog.”

    Boney put on an unbelievable spread. A master class of Q. He had (I think) three WSM’s chugging away, plus three Weber Kettle grills.

    In the dead flesh category, he served spare ribs, babyback ribs, brisket, burnt ends, chicken thighs, chicken breasts, a smoked turkey and Atomic Camel Turds (i.e., an almond stuffed into a date, stuffed into a jalapeño, wrapped with bacon and then smoked).

    All world-class Q.

    Boney Dog and Agatha–he, taking a break from smoking; she, taking a break from gorging.

    This is a mere fraction of the side dishes that accompanied the Q. There was pasta salad with tomato and basil, black bean and corn salad, an outrageous macaroni and cheese (hey…it’s Wisconsin, yah hey der’!), baked beans, creamy cole slaw, an assortment of fresh fruits, a selection of Q sauces, and hey! What’s that thingee at the bottom right corner of the table.

    Why, my god! It’s a durian! How in the name of G. Gordon Liddy did a durian appear on the fruit table?!!!
    Boney Dog eats a durian, and wow! He likes it. Actually, probably a dozen of the guests tasted the durian, and most liked it.

    To quote Boney’s brother, “That smelly stuff was pretty good.”

    Slicing a perfectly smoked brisket.

    Boney’s wife, Bobbi, is a way talented dessert cook. To spice things up, she prepared a wide assortment of Jello shots. Choices included mojoto, piña colada, tequila sunrise, root beer float, chai, pear, and…oh, I don’t know. About a thousand others.

    For dessert, she offered a “Build your own Tart” bar that had everyone’s heads spinning. I dove into the rhubard mousse and didn’t come up till morning.

    I beg to differ. White men can, indeed, smoke.

    The day after, Agatha and I stopped at a few roadside joints to stock up on cheese (hey…it’s Wisconsin, yah hey der’!). I’ve never been able the resist the kitsch-o-liscious allure of roadside dives. Here we see Bobby Nelson’s. Alas, Bobby has left for that great wrestling ring in the sky, but the dive that bears his name still dishes the goods.

    Well…Ok. Perhaps just a wee bit more cheese, please. It’s not for me. It’s for Venti.

    ***********
    UPDATE:  To see Boney Dog’s report on the event (and more pix, including food porn), go HERE and HERE.

  • A POST FOR POSTERITY: NONNIE’S ‘SHROOM STEW.

    Here’s yet-another recipe from Nonnie that screams to be released into the public domain. This time it’s “Nonnie’s Mushroom Stew.”
    You know, Nonnie has only one goal in life: That everyone can eat as well as Fat Sal, yet still fit into his ruffley, pea green High School prom tuxedo. We don’t guarantee the latter, but the former is a piece of cake.

    Nonnie’s Mushroom Stew

    * 2 lbs. veal–cut into 1 inch cubes.
    * 2 lbs. bulk (i.e., without casings) Italian sausage–hot, mild or combo.
    * 2 stalks of celery–diced.
    * 1 each of red bell pepper, green bell pepper and hot chile pepper–diced.
    * 12 oz mushrooms–psychedelic, non-psychedelic or combo–sliced or quartered.
    * 3 cloves garlic–minced or crushed.
    * 1 large onion–diced.
    * 1 c. red wine.
    * 1-28oz can plus 1-12 oz can diced tomatoes.
    * 1-28oz can tomato sauce.
    * Hot pepper flakes.
    * Salt and Pepper.
    * Parsely–chopped, a whole lotta
    * Thick slices of Italian bread, or polenta, or rice.

    Step 1. Fry veal and sausage in olive oil until browned. Remove meat and set aside. Retain enough fat in pot for Step 2.

    Step 2. Fry the following in retained fat until softened: Onion, peppers, celery and ‘shrooms.

    Step 3. Add garlic to mixture and saute for 30 seconds.

    Step 4. Add wine and reduce to approx. 1/4 cup.

    Step 5. Add diced tomatoes, tomato sauce and meats. Cover, reduce heat and simmer until veal is tender. Could take awhile.

    Step 6. Adjust for salt, pepper and picante. Stir in parsely.

    Step 7. Place slice of Italian bread at bottom of each serving bowl. Alternatively, you can add polenta or rice instead of bread if you’re a WASP or something. Ladle stew over bread slice, polenta or rice. If you’re like me, hit it with a drizzle of chile-infused olive oil.

    Step 8. Loosen the belt on that prom tuxedo, Cinncinnati-girl!

    In our next installment…Nonnie’s Fucazzo. Stay tuned.

  • DURIAN, AND ON…

    By this point, you were probably wondering whether my velvet fingertips would ever again stroke the nape of this lonely blog’s neck. To be honest, I was wondering the same.

    My life has experienced a tectonic shift over the past few months. In most ways, it’s better. In some ways, it’s worse. But that’s the way life is.

    A byproduct of that shift has been a severe curtailing of my blogging time…and energy. Especially blogging energy. I am, quite simply, much busier now. And when a sliver free time presents itself at the end of each day, I don’t want to sit in front a computer and write blog posts. I want to sit in front of a TV and watch “Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares.”

    Christ! What a friggin’ great show!!!

    But today I am forcing myself to post. Why? Because I’ve achieved an important life’s goal, and the world needs to hear about it.

    * * * * * *
    I first learned of durian during an episode of “Michael Palin’s Full Circle ” that I watched in the mid-1990’s. I was intrigued by the prospect of this exotic Asian fruit. A fruit that looked like a rugby ball covered with spikes and is reportedly so stinky that it has been banned from buses and airlines in some countries.

    Mr. Palin described durian as being like, “A very smelly custard…rather revolting, really.” But my friends ChiChi and Daffy in Singapore describe it as, “Heavenly.” All things being equal, I don’t take food advice from Brits—Mr. Ramsay notwithstanding, of course.

    The durian challenge had therefore lodged itself firmly in my psyche, and I would not rest until I had—for better or for worse—tasted a smelly mouthful. So I embarked on a fervent search for durian in Spain.

    Spain, of course, isn’t exactly a “strongly-flavored food-friendly” country. The Spanish seem to believe that strong foods—much like that other risky vice, ice water—causes sore throats, pneumonia and, when conditions are right, death by spontaneous combustion. So…I spent a fair amount of energy criss-crossing Spain trying various means of scoring a durian.

    I begged the owners of Thai restaurants in Barcelona and Madrid. Deal or no deal? Hmphff…no deal.

    I asked my boss at Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc. if he would bring me some when he returned from a business trip to Singapore . He agreed! I was thrilled!!!

    When he returned from the trip empty-handed, however, he explained. “I couldn’t bring it on the airplane. It smelled like shit.”

    After several years of fruitless (literally and figuratively) efforts, I gave up. I resigned myself to the fact that my dying breath might be tainted with the perfume of absinthe—but certainly not with the funky stench of durian. I accepted fate. I was at peace.

    Until.

    My accordion-squeezing, babushka-wearing, Polka-dancing girlfriend Agatha and I were shopping at H-Mart—an Asian super, supermarket in the Chicago area. And RIGHT THERE—wedged between the fermented dung beetle sweetbreads and the yak’s dong carpaccio—was the King of the Fruits.

    We scooped-up the booty, paid the cashier and rushed home.

    I then sharpened an 8 inch chef’s knife, laid the durian on a cutting board, and…BONZAI!!! Split the elusive bastard in two before he could escape.

    Gazing from afar, I was smitten by the pleasing aesthetics of its multi-chambered, creamy innards. And then—bending over and crinkling my nose—I took a good, long whiff.

    I’ve read that durian smells like garbage. I’ve read that it smells like well-ripened gym socks. I’ve read that it smells like poo. But I disagree.

    Durian smells like…rotting garlic. Yes, that’s exactly what it smells like. Rotting garlic.

    But I wasn’t there to smell. I was there to taste. And once I became acclimated to the King’s formidable funk, I pulled-out a handful of its creamy flesh and took a bite.


    Awesome! Addictive, even!

    The initial retronasal blast of eye-watering foulness passed quickly. And once my vision and sinuses cleared—I was in heaven.

    Durian’s texture is incredible. Rich…creamy…it feels on the tongue like a very firm crème brulee. The taste is mild and slightly sweet. But again…it was the custard-like texture that I couldn’t resist. Nor could Agatha. I ate an entire half of the durian; she nearly finished the other half.

    If durian has a love/hate relationship with the human palate, it also (reportedly) has a love/love relationship with the human libido. There is a saying in Singapore that goes, “When the durians go down, the sarongs go up.”

    So, you might ask, did the sarongs go up that night? Well…let’s just say that the aphrodisiacal properties of durian are more theoretical than practical.

    I mean…would you really want to kiss someone with breath like rotting garlic?

  • AND NOW FOR A MOMENT OF AWARENESS ABOUT YOUR AWARENESS.

    One of these days, I’ll tell you guys what I’ve been up to lately.

    I’ll tell you about my first taste of durian. I’ll tell you about my brush with the great Alton Brown. I’ll give you a recipe for Nonnie’s Mushroom Stew.

    Those are matters for a different day. As for today, however, I want you to take this test.

  • WAIF, WAIF…DON’T TELL ME.

    One month in the US, and I’ve already gained six pounds.

    Wouldn’t you know it?! Just when opportunity finally comes knocking!

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