“Iron” Mike Tyson grew up in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. After his mother died when he was sixteen, he was adopted by Cus D’Amato, a reclusive boxing trainer and manager who had been responsible for making Floyd Patterson the youngest heavyweight boxing champion in 1956. I, on the other hand, grew up in a farmhouse with a stable family in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. I wanted to take Tae Kwan Do lessons but we couldn’t afford them, so I studied books explaining Asian martial arts instead.
The premise of boxing is ludicrous, which became a hugely popular word in my elementary school after we first heard it said in a nasally voice by none other than Mike Tyson. (That segue is cute enough I fear it will seem contrived….) Basically, boxing involves wrapping up your fists with leather-covered pillows and then attempting to punch an opponent in the front or sides of either the body above the belly button or head while he attempts to do the same atop a 256-484 square foot surface for 30-45 minutes.
Boxing aficionados will tell you the most important element of boxing is footwork. They will also tell you the most beautiful thing in boxing is the left jab. A left jab is a quick, straight punch thrown with the weak hand. It generally serves to measure the distance between you and the opponent and get the opponent off balance. Tyson was not a beautiful boxer- he had no left jab whatsoever. In fact, that is exactly the reason he was so successful.
Tyson was short for a heavyweight boxer. When I was a kid, I thought he was short like me, but actually he is 5’11’’. His reach is normal for his size, so was also less than that of his opponents. Tyson’s technique, cleverly designed to compensate for this, was to position both his gloves high in front of his face and explode toward his opponent like a bulldozer. He was able to nimbly move his head while keeping his arms rock-solid in front of it. When within jabbing range, Tyson didn’t as much as flinch. He just kept barreling forward, deftly cutting off the ring and both perplexing and intimidating his opponent just long enough to feed him devastating right hooks and uppercuts at point blank range.
In November of 1986, a year that had begun with the explosion of the Challenger, “Iron” Mike Tyson overtook Floyd Patterson’s record by a year and a half to become the new youngest heavyweight champion in boxing history. Cus D’Amato died shortly thereafter. Around the same time, my rabbit, aptly named Snowball, froze to death. As Tyson continued to pummel opponents in the ring on an almost weekly basis, my dad turned the rabbit cage into a pigeon coop. I was spending a significant amount of my time reading Marvel comic books, an alternate universe filled with super humans whose personal lives we got a glimpse of in every third issue, and playing with the 1980’s version of G.I. Joe- poseable plastic fighters and vehicles of all different styles whose product tag-line was “A Real American Hero.”
My dad is not a fighter and does not condone fighting. He is what one might call a hobbyist. In the mid 80’s, he divided his spare time between building a boat in the basement, constructing wire-controlled gas propeller-driven model airplanes, playing in a basketball league and assiduously leading the church’s boy-scout group. And by “spare time,” I’m referring to time not being spent supporting a family of five on a single household income as a construction and maintenance worker and also sustaining a 3.5 acre lot with horses, pigs, chickens, a quarter-acre garden and a four bedroom, one bathroom century home that ran on propane and shallow well-water. All this while teaching me how to pitch a baseball, build bird houses and model rockets, shoot a rifle, ride a bike on gravel, play basketball and who knows what else.
I’m not sure why or how dad decided to add raising pigeons to the list. I also don’t recall what kind of pigeons we had at that time. At some point, he moved the pigeon coop from the converted rabbit cage to the machine shed where I was spending more and more time practicing on an old drumset he had bought me for $50. Having yet to develop the capacity for controlling dynamics, I would struggle to figure out how to continue to hear the pigeons cooing while attempting to accompany them on that drumset.
In 1988, just after ending my elementary school years and becoming old enough to finally join the Christian frontiersman re-enactment club my dad and brother were involved in, we moved a few hours south to a small town just outside Des Moines called Polk City. At the same time, my brother, six years my elder, went off to college in Iowa City. Dad asked if I would like to continue to raise pigeons with him when we moved. I can’t recall moving the pigeons from the farm, but I do remember going with dad to buy some new ones. On that trip I learned there were different kinds of pigeons, and it seemed to me a no-brainer that the best ones were those that periodically interrupted their flight with random freefall backflips. My dad wanted the ones that could find their way home from hundreds of miles away. The person selling the pigeons made sure we wouldn’t be using the birds for training dogs. I learned what was meant by that on the drive home. Dad had built a shed in the backyard which he divided it into two sections, one for his Racing Homers and one for my Rollers.
That summer, the neighborhood kids quickly introduced me to their two favorite things: Poison, a really bad “hair” band, and Mike Tyson’s Punchout, a really awesome Nintendo game. In it, you got to be “Iron” Mike and fight his opponents; learning their names, stats, strengths and weaknesses. We all knew it was an almost exact rip-off of an Atari game called Punchout, but it was way better in our eyes- because it was Mike Tyson’s Punchout. I couldn’t even beat the video game version of the guys Tyson had made short work of in real life.
In the eighties, America and Americans were invincible. Perhaps the “Miracle on Ice” can be credited for setting the tone for the decade. We had not only the greatest athletes on the planet, as the 1984 Olympics would prove, but we also had the most entertaining movies, the most brilliant technology, the loudest music, the funniest comedians, Pepsi and break dancing. Sure, the Brits had Princess Di, but we had the king- Michael Jackson. We were so bad-ass we were winning the Cold War by intimidation alone. Everything was larger than life back then. Even our president was a Hollywood actor. We didn’t know or care to know about the wars his administration was instigating, funding and arming. Unbelievably in retrospect, we were also largely ignorant of the AIDS epidemic. We nearly got through the entire decade with only those six astronauts and the accompanying teacher being our only televised glimpse of reality, and they had become enshrined in our minds as epitomizing American bravery and fortitude. We even saved Jessica McClure from that well. 1989 was defined by the Exxon Valdez oil spill, but we failed to appreciate the significance of this event as a poignant warning that we would soon find ourselves cleaning up all kinds of messes that would be the direct results of our decade of peace and prosperity. (When god announced her presence during the World Series and then let the A’s beat the Giants, we should have known we were headed for trouble.)
The early nineties sucked, and not only because of the fact that I was entering high school. The end began on February 11th, 1990. I didn’t watch the “Buster” Douglas fight. Nobody watched that fight, because we all knew nobody could beat Mike Tyson. He was “the baddest man on the planet.” Afterwards, we didn’t know what to believe anymore. Before we knew what was happening, we were fighting in Iraq, “Magic” Johnson had AIDS and Michael Jackson was white. We had been told there was no draft, yet here were getting “Selective Service” registration cards in the mail. Forced to inspect closer, we quickly learned not only was the Marvel universe fiction, but our media-fed one was as well. Obviously many of the greats of the era: Michael Jordan, Joe Montana, Wayne Gretzky, etc. have remained untainted, but that is beside the point. We as a collective had glass chins. We quickly found a new spokesperson for our generation in Kurt Cobain. The turnaround was so drastic that, on January 11th, 1992, Nirvana’s “Nevermind” supplanted Michael Jackson’s “Dangerous” atop the Billboard charts.
Raising pigeons consists mostly of giving them straw, food and water, cleaning up their crap and making sure they are inside at dusk so they don’t get eaten by hawks and owls. The last is achieved by throwing rocks at them if they try and roost on the neighbor's garage. I sometimes drove random places with dad to release the Homers at gradually increasing distances. It wasn’t unusual for them to eventually fail to return, and every once in awhile, one that had been lost for several months would suddenly appear, ragged and beaten. Dad and I remained active in the frontiersman group, where we camped in a Baker-style lean-to tent dad had designed and sewn with three built-in cots. He also built oak and glass lanterns that we bartered with at “Rendezvous,” which were all-male gatherings during which we shot black powder rifles, threw knives, tomahawks and horseshoes, swapped tales and started bonfires with flint and steel.
During one such event, another member of our frontiersman group, whom I had known as far back as I could remember for being able to build the fastest pinewood derby cars in the state, spent an afternoon turning a leaky metal washtub into a washtub bass- only to discover he couldn’t play the thing. Others made brief and unsuccessful attempts, but when it was my dad’s turn, he immediately began plucking out familiar melodies. This astonished me likely as much as it had my parents when my brother had sat down at a piano and started sight-reading music back in ’82. Later that night there was a severe storm and we came within a few feet of being struck by lightning.
After returning home, dad bought a guitar and we started a Christian rock band. This was my first band outside of the organized school music program, which I remained heavily involved in, and my first taste of rehearsals, gigs, band mates and music equipment, which dad bought second-hand from a nice old junk collector named Fred. Also during this time, dad grew his hair long, got his ear pierced and bought a motorcycle.
My junior year of high school, I began dating a girl and discovered bebop. I worked as a prep cook and read classic literature. Dad didn’t know about any of this stuff. He followed meaningless drivel like college football and played golf, which was far too frustrating a sport to try and figure out how to do.
In retrospect, it is obvious that one way to defend against Tyson’s strategy is to tie him up before he can unload a punch, obliging the referee to break the pair up. Repeated, this would make for an interesting gambit to determine who would get more frustrated with a fight in which nary a punch would be thrown, the fans or Tyson. Evander Holyfield was determined to find out.
Mike Tyson’s early success combined with the untimely death of the architect of that success left Tyson without a backup plan. Having presumably never been exposed to the philosophy of fighters like Bruce Lee and Muhammad Ali, flexibility and adaptation were not in “Iron” Mike’s repertoire. He had instead been trained to be unyielding, and he had learned well. When things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to, Mike Tyson didn’t get frustrated; he absolutely snapped.
Today, Tyson’s influence is very much alive in Mixed Martial Arts, or MMA, a modern sport that combines fighting with grappling. Wresters who converted to MMA figured out that Tyson’s style was perfectly suited for them, as the way to defend it, tying up, is exactly what wrestlers want to do. MMA gloves are much less padded than boxing gloves, so even a boxing novice can knock someone out. (This is not to belittle MMA as a sport- I’ve realized the easiest way to defend oneself in real life is to learn how to do everything that is illegal in MMA.) Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell, who a lot of kids today probably tout as the greatest fighter ever, made a career out of emulating Tyson’s boxing approach in MMA fights.
There is currently a television show about Mike Tyson learning to train Racing Homers, called “Taking on Tyson.” Tyson has raised pigeons most of his life, but they have always been ones that looked pretty or did tricks in the air. The unique thing about Homers is that they can find their way home from hundreds of miles away, but in order for them to be good at it, they have to be trained. To some, a show about a washed-up nut-job fooling around with birds might seem a bore, but I’ve remained glued to every episode, not only because Mike Tyson helped define my generation, but because it reminds how fortunate I am that, while my generation grew up looking for heroes in pop-culture, I was being raised by a superhero.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Beating on Death's Door
She's a slick one, born of greed
Speaking endless words, long and empty
A beggar who still wants to choose
A dethroned queen still demands her due
If you want something for nothing you take what you get
A virgin whore in a dirty wedding dress
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
There's a blood stain on the ceiling
But you're the only duck in the shooting gallery
Trying to look out through a bricked-in window
Your destiny lies in the alley below
Trying to see yourself in a shattered mirror
When all else fails, she holds you with broken arms
There's poison in her veins, but the bitch comes for free
A quick fix for all that you think that you need
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She’s all yours now
She’s all yours
Your whore, deal with it
There's no shoulder left to cry wolf on
You're tied in knots that can't be undone
No more warnings will fall on deaf ears
You lied too many times, now no one cares
No one cares
No one cares
You liar
No one cares
No one cares
An empty promise with a heart of tin
Her crooked smile beguiles and it draws you within
The hope for something more, all that you wish for
A kick to the head and a boot to the door
Chasing a crack under the lady’s clothes
A paper trail ends in choking smoke
But you know you lit the match yourself
Play the burning cards that you dealt
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
-Lamb of God
Speaking endless words, long and empty
A beggar who still wants to choose
A dethroned queen still demands her due
If you want something for nothing you take what you get
A virgin whore in a dirty wedding dress
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
There's a blood stain on the ceiling
But you're the only duck in the shooting gallery
Trying to look out through a bricked-in window
Your destiny lies in the alley below
Trying to see yourself in a shattered mirror
When all else fails, she holds you with broken arms
There's poison in her veins, but the bitch comes for free
A quick fix for all that you think that you need
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She’s all yours now
She’s all yours
Your whore, deal with it
There's no shoulder left to cry wolf on
You're tied in knots that can't be undone
No more warnings will fall on deaf ears
You lied too many times, now no one cares
No one cares
No one cares
You liar
No one cares
No one cares
An empty promise with a heart of tin
Her crooked smile beguiles and it draws you within
The hope for something more, all that you wish for
A kick to the head and a boot to the door
Chasing a crack under the lady’s clothes
A paper trail ends in choking smoke
But you know you lit the match yourself
Play the burning cards that you dealt
Scream for salvation, beating on death's door
But just be careful what you wish for
The patron saint of fools answers all your requests
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
She's all yours now, so deal with it
-Lamb of God
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
More Manhattans
In response to recent comments left by two of my most loyal readers, I made cherry syrup last week. Not being in the mood for macerating, I bought the only 100% cherry juice I could find at Hy-Vee, which was actually black cherry juice. The result was definitely not anything like grenadine (duh) but was also more than simply for color, as it does taste like sugary black cherries (duh).
I then spent the next several days trying to make a delicious Manhattan, as that’s the only drink I’ve heard of that bartenders sometimes use cherry syrup in. While it was possibly the first cocktail I learned how to make, I’m not actually a big fan. In fact, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed drinking one since running out of Molly’s delicious brandy-soaked (I think that’s what they were) cherries that made anything taste good. However, I am currently reading the informative book, “The Joy of Mixology,” by Gary Regan, a true cocktail-making expert, and the Manhattan is his favorite drink.
Allow me to break the drink down into its component elements and possible variations: (1)The base liquor can be either rye whiskey or bourbon, and my cupboard limited me to Russell Reserve rye and Weller’s Reserve bourbon. (2)The next ingredient is sweet vermouth, and I had Noilly Pratt and Carpana Antica in stock. (3)The drink needs bitters, and although I’ve always used Angostura, Regan suggests trying Peychaud’s or orange bitters. (I did not try orange bitters). (4)Although not a “correct” ingredient, it is common to add simple syrup, juice from the cherry jar or cherry syrup. (5)Shaken or stirred? (Rule of thumb: if the drink doesn’t contain any non-alcoholic ingredients, stir.) (6)Finally, the drink is usually garnished with a cherry, but Regan suggests a lemon twist instead.
When thoroughly explored, it becomes quickly obvious that even a simple drink can be made any number of ways. And that’s not even taking various ratios into consideration. I think I only made two variations using the cherry syrup before I decided it was a sure-fire way to ruin the drink. After two days without drinking anything worth drinking, I took a day off to drink Old Fashioneds (I have no idea whether that’s the correct plural form of Old Fashioned), a drink which I love that is essentially a Manhattan without the vermouth. (I wonder if anybody has ever thought to substitute gin for whiskey in an Old Fashioned and call it an Old-tini?)
On testing day three, I took a sip of the following: 2 oz rye, ¾ oz Carpano and 2 dashes Angostura stirred- by this time I had experimented enough to confirm following the shake/stir rule of thumb does work best- and it was delicious. I then threw in a maraschino garnish which instantly ruined the drink. Frustratingly, I had just used up the last of the rye. I made another using bourbon instead of rye and a lemon twist instead of a cherry. It was good but not incredible. After that, I made a Lucien Gaudin and, while stirring, realized the total cost of the bottles I was using to make that 3 ounce plus melted ice sized drink was around $120. Jesus.
Incidentally, I was just surprised to find I’d written on Manhattans once before for this blog several years ago. It made for a funny read, as it brought to light both things I knew and things I didn’t know back then. I certainly no longer advocate the recipe I recommended on that post.
I then spent the next several days trying to make a delicious Manhattan, as that’s the only drink I’ve heard of that bartenders sometimes use cherry syrup in. While it was possibly the first cocktail I learned how to make, I’m not actually a big fan. In fact, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed drinking one since running out of Molly’s delicious brandy-soaked (I think that’s what they were) cherries that made anything taste good. However, I am currently reading the informative book, “The Joy of Mixology,” by Gary Regan, a true cocktail-making expert, and the Manhattan is his favorite drink.
Allow me to break the drink down into its component elements and possible variations: (1)The base liquor can be either rye whiskey or bourbon, and my cupboard limited me to Russell Reserve rye and Weller’s Reserve bourbon. (2)The next ingredient is sweet vermouth, and I had Noilly Pratt and Carpana Antica in stock. (3)The drink needs bitters, and although I’ve always used Angostura, Regan suggests trying Peychaud’s or orange bitters. (I did not try orange bitters). (4)Although not a “correct” ingredient, it is common to add simple syrup, juice from the cherry jar or cherry syrup. (5)Shaken or stirred? (Rule of thumb: if the drink doesn’t contain any non-alcoholic ingredients, stir.) (6)Finally, the drink is usually garnished with a cherry, but Regan suggests a lemon twist instead.
When thoroughly explored, it becomes quickly obvious that even a simple drink can be made any number of ways. And that’s not even taking various ratios into consideration. I think I only made two variations using the cherry syrup before I decided it was a sure-fire way to ruin the drink. After two days without drinking anything worth drinking, I took a day off to drink Old Fashioneds (I have no idea whether that’s the correct plural form of Old Fashioned), a drink which I love that is essentially a Manhattan without the vermouth. (I wonder if anybody has ever thought to substitute gin for whiskey in an Old Fashioned and call it an Old-tini?)
On testing day three, I took a sip of the following: 2 oz rye, ¾ oz Carpano and 2 dashes Angostura stirred- by this time I had experimented enough to confirm following the shake/stir rule of thumb does work best- and it was delicious. I then threw in a maraschino garnish which instantly ruined the drink. Frustratingly, I had just used up the last of the rye. I made another using bourbon instead of rye and a lemon twist instead of a cherry. It was good but not incredible. After that, I made a Lucien Gaudin and, while stirring, realized the total cost of the bottles I was using to make that 3 ounce plus melted ice sized drink was around $120. Jesus.
Incidentally, I was just surprised to find I’d written on Manhattans once before for this blog several years ago. It made for a funny read, as it brought to light both things I knew and things I didn’t know back then. I certainly no longer advocate the recipe I recommended on that post.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Postcards
In the days before Facebook, if you wanted to keep in touch with friends and relatives but couldn’t think of much to say to them, you sent them a postcard. The brilliance of the postcard is the side opposite where you are supposed to write has been decorated for you. Most postcards illustrate a location and are intended to be used by travelers to keep in touch with their loved ones back home. These were also frequently used to let others know when they’d be arriving (“Got a flat tire here and will have to wait until Monday to get it fixed. Hopefully, we can get there by Thursday...”). I quite enjoy looking through written on postcards at antique shops. Most of the scribblings are barely legible and mundane, but contemplating why a particular postcard was chosen by the sender and why it was kept by the recipient can be titillating. Two days ago I couldn’t resist spending a dollar on a head-scratcher of a postcard. The front is not a picture but a poem:
The Cynic’s Toast
Here’s to the glass we so love to sip,
It dries many a pensive tear;
‘Tis not so sweet as a woman’s lip,
But a d— sight more sincere.
Underneath has been handwritten “aint (sic) it the truth” replete with quotes. I turned the postcard over expecting a consoling note to a guy who’d just been dumped, but instead it is addressed to “Miss Bess Sanders,” and reads, “Have always known this but didn’t know how to express myself, not being verry (sic) poetical.” For a moment I thought someone must have been sending the equivalent of a raised middle finger to an ex, until I noticed the postmark date: Feb 14, 1910. The fact that this postcard was pristinely kept instead of immediately torn into a hundred pieces leads me to believe this was an incredibly ill-considered and, as the postcard was headed from Pocatello, Idaho to Springfield, Missouri, late arriving Valentine!
Last year I took the train up to Seattle to see an art installation designed and built by my close friend Jake and his girlfriend Ellen. Two artists who start dating and then start collaborating on projects run a good chance of producing nauseating results, especially when their collaboration is for an erotic art exhibit. I was very impressed when their entry turned out to be the cleverest thing there, which honestly wasn’t that huge a feat considering most of the artwork involved naked people being tortured. Their piece, entitled “Love Notes,” was a huge bed covered with over a dozen unique pillows. The idea was to select a pillow (not dissimilar to picking out a postcard) in which you both left a note for the next random person who chose that same pillow and took the note left by the random person prior. I guess you were supposed to keep the note, but then I guess the person before you was expected to write something worth keeping.
The exhibit inspired me to send a postcard featuring a different Yoshitomo Nara artwork to my long distance girlfriend every day for a month. This turned into a very nice ritual of getting home from work, writing a sentence or two and walking two blocks to the post office, during which I found myself passing the same lady walking with two kids and headed to the southern food joint that I never did try.
The Cynic’s Toast
Here’s to the glass we so love to sip,
It dries many a pensive tear;
‘Tis not so sweet as a woman’s lip,
But a d— sight more sincere.
Underneath has been handwritten “aint (sic) it the truth” replete with quotes. I turned the postcard over expecting a consoling note to a guy who’d just been dumped, but instead it is addressed to “Miss Bess Sanders,” and reads, “Have always known this but didn’t know how to express myself, not being verry (sic) poetical.” For a moment I thought someone must have been sending the equivalent of a raised middle finger to an ex, until I noticed the postmark date: Feb 14, 1910. The fact that this postcard was pristinely kept instead of immediately torn into a hundred pieces leads me to believe this was an incredibly ill-considered and, as the postcard was headed from Pocatello, Idaho to Springfield, Missouri, late arriving Valentine!
Last year I took the train up to Seattle to see an art installation designed and built by my close friend Jake and his girlfriend Ellen. Two artists who start dating and then start collaborating on projects run a good chance of producing nauseating results, especially when their collaboration is for an erotic art exhibit. I was very impressed when their entry turned out to be the cleverest thing there, which honestly wasn’t that huge a feat considering most of the artwork involved naked people being tortured. Their piece, entitled “Love Notes,” was a huge bed covered with over a dozen unique pillows. The idea was to select a pillow (not dissimilar to picking out a postcard) in which you both left a note for the next random person who chose that same pillow and took the note left by the random person prior. I guess you were supposed to keep the note, but then I guess the person before you was expected to write something worth keeping.
The exhibit inspired me to send a postcard featuring a different Yoshitomo Nara artwork to my long distance girlfriend every day for a month. This turned into a very nice ritual of getting home from work, writing a sentence or two and walking two blocks to the post office, during which I found myself passing the same lady walking with two kids and headed to the southern food joint that I never did try.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Buck/Rickey
Ginger ale and ginger beer is the same thing. Ale is beer, as I’ve had to explain to a bartender at a bar in Cedar Rapids. Neither ginger ale nor ginger beer contains alcohol. These days, the ginger ale you get in the soda aisle is sweet and artificial, and companies call it ginger beer when they want to distance themselves from that variety. Most of it, including the somewhat popular Reed's brand, doesn’t taste much better. If you want a spicy carbonated beverage that burns up your nose when you drink it (and you do), buy an authentic Jamaican-style ginger beer. The brand most easily found is Goya; look for it in the Asian section next to the coconut drinks or in the Mexican section with the Jarritos. Once you find Goya Jamaican-style ginger beer or something similar, you can make a proper Buck, a classic British highball popular in the 20’s.
One peeve I’ve become sensitive to from reading too many ill-researched cocktail books is those who think lemons and limes are interchangeable. Absolutely untrue. In my ample drink mixing experience, I’ve had better luck substituting lemon juice for grapefruit juice than for lime juice. A buck must be made with a half a LIME. Adding lime juice to Jamaican-style ginger beer cuts the intense spice yet adds a zest that makes it delicious. Lemon juice essentially waters it down a bit. Many buck recipes incorrectly call for lemon, and the only excusable reason for this is that they're using weak ginger beer.
Another peeve I have is when recipes ask for half a fruit or vegetable without telling you whose garden they are using to determine the size of their fruits and vegetables. I need precision. An average-sized lime contains 1.5 ounces (1 jigger) of juice. A buck uses ¾ ounces of lime juice.
When purchasing citrus, look for smooth, round fruit that is slightly tender. Most store-bought citrus gets covered with a coat of wax. Because the lime shell is included in the drink, be sure to wash off the wax. Next, roll the lime between the counter and your palm to help separate the juice from the skin. Cut the lime in half, juice the half and pour the juice into an empty (10 ounce) old-fashioned aka rocks glass. Add the spent shell and 3 ice cubes. Proper ice cubes, not those worthless little things my brother’s refrigerator spits out.
If you want a virgin drink, simply fill the glass with the ginger beer and you’re done. If you want it spiked, first add a jigger of London dry gin and swish the glass around once or twice before adding the ginger beer. Resist the temptation to stir anything carbonated- it makes it goes flat. Instead, trust the fizzing-action of the bubbles to do the stirring for you. Tangueray perfectly compliments carbonated highballs, but it is generally over-priced, so I buy Boodles, which is smoother, cheaper and preferable to Tangueray in uncarbonated cocktails.
A rickey is exactly the same as a buck except you use soda water instead of ginger beer, which makes it boring; like a wanna-be gin and tonic. However, you can amp the drink up by making a Royal Rickey- a very refreshing, summery drink. All you do is add a ½ ounce each of sweet vermouth (Vya, Noilly Pratt or Dolin) and real grenadine (recipe below) and stirring before topping with soda. Or, top with Jamaican-style ginger beer to make a Royal Buck.
Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz lime juice
Stir briefly w/ spent lime shell, 3 ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ ginger ale (for buck) or soda (for rickey)
Royal Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz lime juice
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz grenadine
Stir briefly w/ spent lime shell, 3 ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ ginger ale (for buck) or soda (for rickey)
Grenadine
Combine 1.25 cups granulated sugar and 1 cup POM pomegranate juice in saucepan. Stir while bringing to just under boiling. Lightly simmer 7 minutes or until thick enough to coat back of spoon. Allow to cool and keep refrigerated.
One peeve I’ve become sensitive to from reading too many ill-researched cocktail books is those who think lemons and limes are interchangeable. Absolutely untrue. In my ample drink mixing experience, I’ve had better luck substituting lemon juice for grapefruit juice than for lime juice. A buck must be made with a half a LIME. Adding lime juice to Jamaican-style ginger beer cuts the intense spice yet adds a zest that makes it delicious. Lemon juice essentially waters it down a bit. Many buck recipes incorrectly call for lemon, and the only excusable reason for this is that they're using weak ginger beer.
Another peeve I have is when recipes ask for half a fruit or vegetable without telling you whose garden they are using to determine the size of their fruits and vegetables. I need precision. An average-sized lime contains 1.5 ounces (1 jigger) of juice. A buck uses ¾ ounces of lime juice.
When purchasing citrus, look for smooth, round fruit that is slightly tender. Most store-bought citrus gets covered with a coat of wax. Because the lime shell is included in the drink, be sure to wash off the wax. Next, roll the lime between the counter and your palm to help separate the juice from the skin. Cut the lime in half, juice the half and pour the juice into an empty (10 ounce) old-fashioned aka rocks glass. Add the spent shell and 3 ice cubes. Proper ice cubes, not those worthless little things my brother’s refrigerator spits out.
If you want a virgin drink, simply fill the glass with the ginger beer and you’re done. If you want it spiked, first add a jigger of London dry gin and swish the glass around once or twice before adding the ginger beer. Resist the temptation to stir anything carbonated- it makes it goes flat. Instead, trust the fizzing-action of the bubbles to do the stirring for you. Tangueray perfectly compliments carbonated highballs, but it is generally over-priced, so I buy Boodles, which is smoother, cheaper and preferable to Tangueray in uncarbonated cocktails.
A rickey is exactly the same as a buck except you use soda water instead of ginger beer, which makes it boring; like a wanna-be gin and tonic. However, you can amp the drink up by making a Royal Rickey- a very refreshing, summery drink. All you do is add a ½ ounce each of sweet vermouth (Vya, Noilly Pratt or Dolin) and real grenadine (recipe below) and stirring before topping with soda. Or, top with Jamaican-style ginger beer to make a Royal Buck.
Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz lime juice
Stir briefly w/ spent lime shell, 3 ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ ginger ale (for buck) or soda (for rickey)
Royal Buck/Rickey
1.5 oz London dry gin
¾ oz lime juice
½ oz sweet vermouth
½ oz grenadine
Stir briefly w/ spent lime shell, 3 ice cubes in old fashioned glass
Top w/ ginger ale (for buck) or soda (for rickey)
Grenadine
Combine 1.25 cups granulated sugar and 1 cup POM pomegranate juice in saucepan. Stir while bringing to just under boiling. Lightly simmer 7 minutes or until thick enough to coat back of spoon. Allow to cool and keep refrigerated.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Flatworms
Last night I dreamt I was with an unknown girl hiking in a forest looking for an area to use my camp stove and Bialetti to make coffee and we came upon a couple who invited us into their home which was absolutely covered with parasitic flatworms and my cats were there and I was worried for them and the couple didn’t mind the worms at all and they had pets also so I felt perhaps I was overreacting but my clothes were covered with them so I was shopping at a thrift store for new ones but every time I saw a shirt on a rack that I liked when I moved the hangers it was no longer there and I wondered whether things were actually disappearing or if I was going crazy….
Friday, March 4, 2011
Eighteen Percent
How to figure an 18% tip in your head (using $30.00 as final bill):
1. Add comped food or drinks to bill. (30.00 + free $5 dessert= 35.00)
2. Find 10% by moving the decimal point to the left one digit. (3.50)
3. Find 20% by multiplying 10% by 2. (3.50 x 2 = 7.00)
4. Find 2% by moving the decimal point of 20% to the left one digit. (0.70)
5. Subtract 2% from 20% to get 18%. (7.00 - 0.70 = 6.30)
How to do the same thing using a calculator:
1. Multiply total times .18. (35.00 x .18 = 6.30)
1. Add comped food or drinks to bill. (30.00 + free $5 dessert= 35.00)
2. Find 10% by moving the decimal point to the left one digit. (3.50)
3. Find 20% by multiplying 10% by 2. (3.50 x 2 = 7.00)
4. Find 2% by moving the decimal point of 20% to the left one digit. (0.70)
5. Subtract 2% from 20% to get 18%. (7.00 - 0.70 = 6.30)
How to do the same thing using a calculator:
1. Multiply total times .18. (35.00 x .18 = 6.30)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Human Condition
The Human Condition (1959-1961) is a cinematic masterpiece, based on a novel by Jumpei Gomikawa, written and directed by Masaki Kobayashi. Over the course of three movies, each broken into two 90 minutes halves, this epic follows the life of Kaji (Tatsuya Nakadai), a Japanese man toiling through World War II.
Beautiful and shocking, hopeful and depressing, there is no description which can do anything but detract from the experience of watching these films. The storyline manages to remain compelling and unpredictable throughout, and the ending…. The acting is stellar. The cinematography, by Yoshio Miyajima, gives Kazuo Miyagawa a run for his money, which is the biggest compliment that can possibly be given. Stanley Kubrick stole the first half of the second movie almost scene for scene in making the first half of Full Metal Jacket (1987). Individually, each of these movies could be considered among the best ever made. Collectively, this trilogy is among the greatest achievements humankind has ever produced. Seriously.
Unfortunately the bulk of Americans don’t have nearly ten hours to waste on black-and-white and subtitled perfection.
Beautiful and shocking, hopeful and depressing, there is no description which can do anything but detract from the experience of watching these films. The storyline manages to remain compelling and unpredictable throughout, and the ending…. The acting is stellar. The cinematography, by Yoshio Miyajima, gives Kazuo Miyagawa a run for his money, which is the biggest compliment that can possibly be given. Stanley Kubrick stole the first half of the second movie almost scene for scene in making the first half of Full Metal Jacket (1987). Individually, each of these movies could be considered among the best ever made. Collectively, this trilogy is among the greatest achievements humankind has ever produced. Seriously.
Unfortunately the bulk of Americans don’t have nearly ten hours to waste on black-and-white and subtitled perfection.
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