This may be the last post by CaryBeck. As I move on, not by choice, I am reminded, events occur for a reason. And for myself, who better than Peter Gabriel to capture the key elements. My apologees to Peter for the editorial freedom to reflect my particular sequence of events, but the primary impetus at play was external , rather than internal.
Solsbury hill
Climbing up on solsbury hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
I had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
Just had to trust imagination
My heart was going boom boom, boom
Son, he said, grab your things, Im going to send you home.
To keeping silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Tho my life was in a rutt
ill I thought of what Id say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart was going boom boom boom
Hey, he said, grab your things, Im going to send you home.
Yeah back home
When illusion spin her net
Im never where I want to be
And liberty she pirouette
When I think that I am free
Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes, but still can see
No one taught them etiquette
I will show another me
Today I dont need a replacement
Ill tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart was going boom boom boom
Hey, I said, you can keep my things, I am heading home.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Curse of the Garmin
The horses are at the gate. Not quite, but at least the runners are in the corral. It’s the start of the NCM half. Any comparison with the crew surrounding me in the 2:00 pen with the thoroughbreds at the front are strictly limited to our imagination. However, in our minds, we are all Kenyans.
This is the pinnacle of four months of training. When that ultimate decision, influenced by unexpected choice by others, resulted in a whimsical decision to give it a go. The path forward had been fraught with more perils than any previous attempt. A lesser mortal might have suspected a conspiracy, a collusion among the ragtag group of pretenders to the throne, was in force. From weather, to phisio, to travel and the most troublesome; allergies. It has been a long, hard, often interrupted journey. This truly was a campaign of snakes and ladders. Fortunately medication came to the rescue, providing a remedy at virtually the last possible moment for the final aliment. Only the next few hours will tell if this relief had came in time; enabling me to not only compete on an equal footing, but also to triumph again. The spirits are soaring.
And it seems there is a affinity, an equality among the half participants. Very unlike the 5K or 10K races. With their walking groups, strollers, and laissez faire attitude. The runners in the first few rows may be dedicated. Blazing past the spectators, many of them fellow half entrants; leaving us with visions of gazelles in our minds. Further boosting moral for the following morning. But these visions only last momentarily, as the impending, plodding, pack approaches. A sense of reality returns as the circus passes. All that are missing are the elephants, clowns and marching bands. Hitting the wall has a very different meaning at this distance.
And so we are all gathered here in the corral. Home to the dedicated. The ones who train multiple times each week. The ones that have a training plan; a goal and a race strategy. As the seconds tick down, the anticipation builds, the stories exchanged, the energy increasing. To a person, the watches come out like clockwork, the satellites locked in and the mind focused. Everyone around me is a veteran, having run multiple 10K’s and halves. A few have completed the dreaded marathon and commented; nevermore. I was easily spotted as the newbie. No watch on my wrist. No plan to speak of. But I felt welcome. A fellow comrade in arms. The sun was shining. Surely this was meant to be.
As the gun goes off, the dam bursts. A slow ripple begins at the front that slowly works its way back as thousands of runners stream thought the starting gates. The pace, initially slow, running shoulder to shoulder, accelerates as the gaps increase, settling to a smooth flow with a casual ripple as the runners settle into their place. It is smooth and rhythmic, feeding off the energy of the pack, moving forward in sync. There is almost an euphoric air as you glide forward. Much to my surprise, I easily catch up to the 2:00 bunny, the 1:55 bunny and the 1:50 bunny. How hard can this be. The K’s are falling by the wayside. I am in my element.
But this was not to be. Reality set in at the 12K marker. I distinctly recall the fleeting thought that I tried to banish from my conscious. Probably the second most vivid memory of this day. Oh crap. There is another 9K to go. A combination of interrupted training with an unsustainable pace was coming home to roost. The demons were banished for a few more K, but with the impending ramp to the bridge over the cannel in sight, resistance was futile. For the first time in any race, I slowed to a walk. I did manage to recover but the pace was faltering, the spirit weakened; only sheer will keeping the legs moving. Further disillusionment as the pace bunnies kept passing, and now the 2:00 bunny was fading from sight. Not entirely defeated, the legs kept moving to the finish. And to be rewarded later in finding out I did manage to break the 2:00 mark. The best news of the day.
And so I sit here, again, after another day of running. My Garmin, the silent, haunting, witness to a less than stellar performance. The solution to my race problems, a sustainable pace, was to be a guiding light, the star of running watches. Setting the course and time straight, a beacon providing real time feedback, to enable a quicker pace that would return me to my rightful place as leader of the pack. Unfortunately, ever since the watch arrived, I have never been able to sustain the same level of training before the NCM half. Having to stop frequently, cut runs short, and generally underachieve. I am sure you may suggest other factors should be considered, but I prefer The Curse of the Garmin. The Kenyans can rest easy for another night.
This is the pinnacle of four months of training. When that ultimate decision, influenced by unexpected choice by others, resulted in a whimsical decision to give it a go. The path forward had been fraught with more perils than any previous attempt. A lesser mortal might have suspected a conspiracy, a collusion among the ragtag group of pretenders to the throne, was in force. From weather, to phisio, to travel and the most troublesome; allergies. It has been a long, hard, often interrupted journey. This truly was a campaign of snakes and ladders. Fortunately medication came to the rescue, providing a remedy at virtually the last possible moment for the final aliment. Only the next few hours will tell if this relief had came in time; enabling me to not only compete on an equal footing, but also to triumph again. The spirits are soaring.
And it seems there is a affinity, an equality among the half participants. Very unlike the 5K or 10K races. With their walking groups, strollers, and laissez faire attitude. The runners in the first few rows may be dedicated. Blazing past the spectators, many of them fellow half entrants; leaving us with visions of gazelles in our minds. Further boosting moral for the following morning. But these visions only last momentarily, as the impending, plodding, pack approaches. A sense of reality returns as the circus passes. All that are missing are the elephants, clowns and marching bands. Hitting the wall has a very different meaning at this distance.
And so we are all gathered here in the corral. Home to the dedicated. The ones who train multiple times each week. The ones that have a training plan; a goal and a race strategy. As the seconds tick down, the anticipation builds, the stories exchanged, the energy increasing. To a person, the watches come out like clockwork, the satellites locked in and the mind focused. Everyone around me is a veteran, having run multiple 10K’s and halves. A few have completed the dreaded marathon and commented; nevermore. I was easily spotted as the newbie. No watch on my wrist. No plan to speak of. But I felt welcome. A fellow comrade in arms. The sun was shining. Surely this was meant to be.
As the gun goes off, the dam bursts. A slow ripple begins at the front that slowly works its way back as thousands of runners stream thought the starting gates. The pace, initially slow, running shoulder to shoulder, accelerates as the gaps increase, settling to a smooth flow with a casual ripple as the runners settle into their place. It is smooth and rhythmic, feeding off the energy of the pack, moving forward in sync. There is almost an euphoric air as you glide forward. Much to my surprise, I easily catch up to the 2:00 bunny, the 1:55 bunny and the 1:50 bunny. How hard can this be. The K’s are falling by the wayside. I am in my element.
But this was not to be. Reality set in at the 12K marker. I distinctly recall the fleeting thought that I tried to banish from my conscious. Probably the second most vivid memory of this day. Oh crap. There is another 9K to go. A combination of interrupted training with an unsustainable pace was coming home to roost. The demons were banished for a few more K, but with the impending ramp to the bridge over the cannel in sight, resistance was futile. For the first time in any race, I slowed to a walk. I did manage to recover but the pace was faltering, the spirit weakened; only sheer will keeping the legs moving. Further disillusionment as the pace bunnies kept passing, and now the 2:00 bunny was fading from sight. Not entirely defeated, the legs kept moving to the finish. And to be rewarded later in finding out I did manage to break the 2:00 mark. The best news of the day.
And so I sit here, again, after another day of running. My Garmin, the silent, haunting, witness to a less than stellar performance. The solution to my race problems, a sustainable pace, was to be a guiding light, the star of running watches. Setting the course and time straight, a beacon providing real time feedback, to enable a quicker pace that would return me to my rightful place as leader of the pack. Unfortunately, ever since the watch arrived, I have never been able to sustain the same level of training before the NCM half. Having to stop frequently, cut runs short, and generally underachieve. I am sure you may suggest other factors should be considered, but I prefer The Curse of the Garmin. The Kenyans can rest easy for another night.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Amber Alert Amber Alert
It is interesting reflecting on your own assimilation, slowly becoming conditioned over time to change your behavior until you do not realize change has occurred. Only when you remove yourself to a safe haven, hopefully not too late, do you have the opportunity to emerge from your shackles and bask in freedom again. And even then you may not even recognized you have escaped the clutches of the agents of change. I ponder this as I entered SFO for my flight back to Cary to be confronted, yet again, by the blaring the speakers. "We are now at threat security level orange. Please report any suspicious activity or any unattended baggage's."
For those of you who don't have the pleasure of travelling through the US now a days, this has become the norm. A perpetual state of fear and suspicion pervasive at many public institutions. Slowly conditioning travelers to become the next layer of security. To become more cautious and nervous leading to a heightened sense of fear. This is further reinforced through the overbearing presence of security staff and the on-going screening. I have lost count of how many dangerous nail files have been confiscated.
There is an industry of fear gaining the upper hand throughout the country. An industry that benefits from this perpetual state of alertness. The masses in the country. The ones that don't travel seem to go on with their day to day lives without any concerns. The fear mongers gaurding the borders, institutionalizing their police state, relish their new role in spreading doom and gloom. And profiting from it.
Contrast this with the multiple ferry trips we made last week through Victoria. No armed guards, no security screening, no baggage searches or x-ray machines. Liquids and gels; bring them right on board and enjoy the view. Watch the Orca's accross the harbour. Just march on board, drop off your luggage and relax. It was quite the pleasant change. The atmosphere was friendly, engaging and relaxing. There was a feeling of peace and bliss. I only realize this now as yet another security alert is broadcast through the airport.
Fortunately we had our own Amber alerts in Victoria. Several of them at the Swan Pub. I toast you BC for common sense, a sense of community and the ability to resist the fear mongers who would have you succumb. Essentially achieving in proxy what they claim to protect us from.
For those of you who don't have the pleasure of travelling through the US now a days, this has become the norm. A perpetual state of fear and suspicion pervasive at many public institutions. Slowly conditioning travelers to become the next layer of security. To become more cautious and nervous leading to a heightened sense of fear. This is further reinforced through the overbearing presence of security staff and the on-going screening. I have lost count of how many dangerous nail files have been confiscated.
There is an industry of fear gaining the upper hand throughout the country. An industry that benefits from this perpetual state of alertness. The masses in the country. The ones that don't travel seem to go on with their day to day lives without any concerns. The fear mongers gaurding the borders, institutionalizing their police state, relish their new role in spreading doom and gloom. And profiting from it.
Contrast this with the multiple ferry trips we made last week through Victoria. No armed guards, no security screening, no baggage searches or x-ray machines. Liquids and gels; bring them right on board and enjoy the view. Watch the Orca's accross the harbour. Just march on board, drop off your luggage and relax. It was quite the pleasant change. The atmosphere was friendly, engaging and relaxing. There was a feeling of peace and bliss. I only realize this now as yet another security alert is broadcast through the airport.
Fortunately we had our own Amber alerts in Victoria. Several of them at the Swan Pub. I toast you BC for common sense, a sense of community and the ability to resist the fear mongers who would have you succumb. Essentially achieving in proxy what they claim to protect us from.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Canadian in the South on Independence Day – a contrast in celebration.
As a weary Canadian traveler, heading to the South for some much needed R&R, I was looking forward to the opportunity to consider the Canadian celebratory style for Canada Day versus the American celebration of the birth of the world’s greatest democracy [sic]….eh! We, being the quiet, cultured nation that we are, are prone to more quiet, dare I say, cultured celebrations of the day upon which we became a nation – yes that’s right, Queen V. actually signed the BNA on July 1, 1867, which set in motion the alignment of moon and stars which lead to our gradual, and I mean gradual, development as a fully fledged nation. Maybe it’s our stiff upper lip birth or our relaxed “whatever” culture, but our celebration of the birth of our nation pales in comparison to our neighbours to the south.
The week kicked off at our local bank, a branch of the Royal Bank of Canada, who invited us down, and I mean with written invitation, to celebrate Canada Day with Tim Hortons coffee and donuts. How could we resist as truly patriotic Canadians. We donned our best red and white apparel, and sashayed down to our local (bank) (see future blogs about the perils of walking in Cary, or anywhere in the US period) to enjoy the hospitality of our somewhat bewildered, but oh so pleasant bank manager. The bag from Timmys was on display, beside the coffee urn, along with a wonderful assortment of donuts, the likes of which have never been seen north of the 49th parallel. Our personal bank manager was so enthused to see us, especially noting our red and white apparel; he joined us for a coffee. That’s when I began to get suspicious. While I am a true Canadian, I must admit I have never really developed a taste for Tim Horton coffee. You see, I drink coffee black, and I think Timmys is designed for double/double people. I find it a little harsh. However, this coffee was delicious. I then noticed the seal was not broken on the coffee bag, and I spotted the Krispy Kreme box under the table. I sensed a Krispy Kreme Konspiracy. The KKK was once again at work in the South. I whispered,” Run for it! Assimilation has begun. “
No one can ever accuse Canadians of being “over the top” when celebrating our nation’s birth. Who ever heard of “Canada Day Eve”…I kid you not, I have seen posters advertising “Independence Eve” activities, bands, picnics, gatherings in the local parks…we pale greatly by comparison. For the majority of Canadians, Canada Day is an occasion best spent on one’s deck, with family and friends, with fireworks in the backyard. In the mighty US of A, it would appear commerce rules; you only have the day off if you are a government employee or upper management. Stores are open; life goes on as usual for the majority of Americans. One wonders if they celebrate Independence Day on their next day off. That being said, there is a great show of patriotism in this nation, flags everywhere, recognition of service to the country, a feeling of collegiality – everyone seems to have somewhere to go to celebrate their country.
What would a celebration be without fireworks; and boy, do they like their fireworks! Now, some of us have firsthand experience purchasing fireworks as we made our way north through the hillbilly country of West Virginia, however, for the most part, Canadians tend to buy our fireworks from the variety store or the service club(i.e. Boy Scouts) that sells them under license in the days approaching Canada Day. TAME! The largest box we were ever able to buy at Costco, is the starter kit here at the local store. I am beginning to suspect this is how the military sells off their surplus ordinates. This is why everyone drives Hummers down here. You strap the supersize box from Costco on the roof, (I’m sure there’s some ex –military rockets in there) and if you hit a bump, and happen to fire off a few rounds, no one suspects a thing. It’s a Hummer! Ewald’s baby SUV (Japanese) just won’t do it, it would be immediately suspect as a foreign (read terrorist) vehicle. Also, I wonder, in a litigious society such as this, where people sue over nothing, no one seems concerned about the military grade fire power in the home fireworks kits. Especially coming from country where we are lucky if the town we live in is able to host picnic/fireworks, due to insurance costs.
Mocking aside, one has to admire the fact that even if they have to work all day on the 4th, they come together as a community and nation to celebrate their existence – and they do so as a united people.
The week kicked off at our local bank, a branch of the Royal Bank of Canada, who invited us down, and I mean with written invitation, to celebrate Canada Day with Tim Hortons coffee and donuts. How could we resist as truly patriotic Canadians. We donned our best red and white apparel, and sashayed down to our local (bank) (see future blogs about the perils of walking in Cary, or anywhere in the US period) to enjoy the hospitality of our somewhat bewildered, but oh so pleasant bank manager. The bag from Timmys was on display, beside the coffee urn, along with a wonderful assortment of donuts, the likes of which have never been seen north of the 49th parallel. Our personal bank manager was so enthused to see us, especially noting our red and white apparel; he joined us for a coffee. That’s when I began to get suspicious. While I am a true Canadian, I must admit I have never really developed a taste for Tim Horton coffee. You see, I drink coffee black, and I think Timmys is designed for double/double people. I find it a little harsh. However, this coffee was delicious. I then noticed the seal was not broken on the coffee bag, and I spotted the Krispy Kreme box under the table. I sensed a Krispy Kreme Konspiracy. The KKK was once again at work in the South. I whispered,” Run for it! Assimilation has begun. “
No one can ever accuse Canadians of being “over the top” when celebrating our nation’s birth. Who ever heard of “Canada Day Eve”…I kid you not, I have seen posters advertising “Independence Eve” activities, bands, picnics, gatherings in the local parks…we pale greatly by comparison. For the majority of Canadians, Canada Day is an occasion best spent on one’s deck, with family and friends, with fireworks in the backyard. In the mighty US of A, it would appear commerce rules; you only have the day off if you are a government employee or upper management. Stores are open; life goes on as usual for the majority of Americans. One wonders if they celebrate Independence Day on their next day off. That being said, there is a great show of patriotism in this nation, flags everywhere, recognition of service to the country, a feeling of collegiality – everyone seems to have somewhere to go to celebrate their country.
What would a celebration be without fireworks; and boy, do they like their fireworks! Now, some of us have firsthand experience purchasing fireworks as we made our way north through the hillbilly country of West Virginia, however, for the most part, Canadians tend to buy our fireworks from the variety store or the service club(i.e. Boy Scouts) that sells them under license in the days approaching Canada Day. TAME! The largest box we were ever able to buy at Costco, is the starter kit here at the local store. I am beginning to suspect this is how the military sells off their surplus ordinates. This is why everyone drives Hummers down here. You strap the supersize box from Costco on the roof, (I’m sure there’s some ex –military rockets in there) and if you hit a bump, and happen to fire off a few rounds, no one suspects a thing. It’s a Hummer! Ewald’s baby SUV (Japanese) just won’t do it, it would be immediately suspect as a foreign (read terrorist) vehicle. Also, I wonder, in a litigious society such as this, where people sue over nothing, no one seems concerned about the military grade fire power in the home fireworks kits. Especially coming from country where we are lucky if the town we live in is able to host picnic/fireworks, due to insurance costs.
Mocking aside, one has to admire the fact that even if they have to work all day on the 4th, they come together as a community and nation to celebrate their existence – and they do so as a united people.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Curse You Gadget
It was never clear to me when I first heard this phrase used in any context regarding myself. It was just one of those phrases that seemed to magically emerge in a happy home. Always used in a playful and humourous manner, but also conveying a message of innocence that can only originate in a child’s mind. It is certainly a memory that keeps on surfacing from time to time from my subconscious. Bringing back memories from times gone past.
I do have some thoughts as to the genesis and motivation of its origin. Most likely some mischievous imps, staying up past their bedtime; their minds not ready to let go of another day; interpreting the world as they only can. I am certain there were many, many more phrases but this one seemed to develop a level of permanence.
As our family grew up, one of the casualties of adulthood are the vivid imaginations of the children. Slowly, imperceptibly, almost taken for granted, the march of time carries with it intended and unintended consequences. We are still the parents, but relate and engage at evolving and changing levels.
And recently the final stages of independence are approaching as our children move out and begin their journey though life. Subtly, imperceptibly, we are no longer the parents in the context and role we have fulfilled to date. You want to hold onto the past, but are also looking forward to the future. First one and then another graduating. But there are still two more to go and enabling us to justify in our minds some semblance of responsibility.
So here I am, at the starting coral for the half, not quite ready to let go. Despite all the signs, the reality, and the onward march of time, Inspector Gadget was going to rise up again and would hear that familiar line at the end of the day. Curse you Gadget.
It was not to be. The arms. The legs. They were not up to the challenge. I am now a passenger for the rest of the journey. And I do look forward to the drive.
I do have some thoughts as to the genesis and motivation of its origin. Most likely some mischievous imps, staying up past their bedtime; their minds not ready to let go of another day; interpreting the world as they only can. I am certain there were many, many more phrases but this one seemed to develop a level of permanence.
As our family grew up, one of the casualties of adulthood are the vivid imaginations of the children. Slowly, imperceptibly, almost taken for granted, the march of time carries with it intended and unintended consequences. We are still the parents, but relate and engage at evolving and changing levels.
And recently the final stages of independence are approaching as our children move out and begin their journey though life. Subtly, imperceptibly, we are no longer the parents in the context and role we have fulfilled to date. You want to hold onto the past, but are also looking forward to the future. First one and then another graduating. But there are still two more to go and enabling us to justify in our minds some semblance of responsibility.
So here I am, at the starting coral for the half, not quite ready to let go. Despite all the signs, the reality, and the onward march of time, Inspector Gadget was going to rise up again and would hear that familiar line at the end of the day. Curse you Gadget.
It was not to be. The arms. The legs. They were not up to the challenge. I am now a passenger for the rest of the journey. And I do look forward to the drive.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
One Sheep Short of 500
It is late tonight, and I am heading home tomorrow, but I just can’t get to sleep. There is something on my mind. I just need to ramble on for a little time, more for myself rather than posting some words of wisdom or insight or poetic prose which I have been able to generate.
It has been a good day. No, it has been a great day. Spirited dialogic with colleagues, problems solved on several fronts and business seems to have bottomed out with reasonable optimism of an upturn in the economy. And I am getting on with my latest goal of running a half. Still much more work to do. But the distances are increasing and the recovery is shorter. This weekend I will complete my long run. I will complete my long run. And some of the kids were on line for a brief chat. Which I always enjoy.
And then with work done (well it is never really done but you just have to call it quits sometime) , it’s on to dinner. Time to crack open Jamie again. He does keep it simple. And easy to follow. Although some of the ingredients have been a challenge. Tonight is sushi night. Not those little bits that Blade would gulp in one swipe. But a whole tuna steak. Not too thick. Just the right size for a quick broil. Rub on a little olive oil, season with sea salt and pepper. Sizzle for 2 – 3 minutes and voila. A meal anyone could die for. Truly one of the best to date. And there I was, eating this fabulous meal, sipping a little wine, enjoying each and every mouthful, when it started to sink in. This would have been the perfect meal to share with someone. Especially someone special.
It has now been almost two months. And you would have thought it was going well. I did. At least until dinner was halfway over. You do mask over the challenges by keeping yourself busy. There are plenty of things to do when you are on your own covering all the necessities of life. But it finally hit home today. It didn’t help that I had Leonard Cohen playing in the background. “they sentenced me to twenty years of boredom..”.
So this is for my friends and especially my family. Whether you are in the four corners of the world or right at home. I do miss you all. Even a quick chat, just for a moment is appreciated. And one day soon that last sheep will come home.
It has been a good day. No, it has been a great day. Spirited dialogic with colleagues, problems solved on several fronts and business seems to have bottomed out with reasonable optimism of an upturn in the economy. And I am getting on with my latest goal of running a half. Still much more work to do. But the distances are increasing and the recovery is shorter. This weekend I will complete my long run. I will complete my long run. And some of the kids were on line for a brief chat. Which I always enjoy.
And then with work done (well it is never really done but you just have to call it quits sometime) , it’s on to dinner. Time to crack open Jamie again. He does keep it simple. And easy to follow. Although some of the ingredients have been a challenge. Tonight is sushi night. Not those little bits that Blade would gulp in one swipe. But a whole tuna steak. Not too thick. Just the right size for a quick broil. Rub on a little olive oil, season with sea salt and pepper. Sizzle for 2 – 3 minutes and voila. A meal anyone could die for. Truly one of the best to date. And there I was, eating this fabulous meal, sipping a little wine, enjoying each and every mouthful, when it started to sink in. This would have been the perfect meal to share with someone. Especially someone special.
It has now been almost two months. And you would have thought it was going well. I did. At least until dinner was halfway over. You do mask over the challenges by keeping yourself busy. There are plenty of things to do when you are on your own covering all the necessities of life. But it finally hit home today. It didn’t help that I had Leonard Cohen playing in the background. “they sentenced me to twenty years of boredom..”.
So this is for my friends and especially my family. Whether you are in the four corners of the world or right at home. I do miss you all. Even a quick chat, just for a moment is appreciated. And one day soon that last sheep will come home.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
To Cook or not to Cook
Well its Jamie and me tonight.
Bloody ‘ell. What’s a bloke to do when he’s been on the other side of the counter most of his life.
I am well versed with the essential meals. To this I am true. A real breakfast. A bit of eggs, and chips messed all up with some bacon for an artery clogging, heart stopping breakfast. Soup and sandwiches for lunch. Dark rye bread with caraway seeds, german pepperseed salami, aged white cheddar cheese and a slice of tomato. Barbeques for dinner. Steaks, breasts, legs and fish. And don’t forget the potatoes, tossed with some pepper, salt and spicy seasonings. But once you expand beyond the basic ingredients, I step aside for the passionate cooks, the ones who can unlock the wide range in tastes and senses that lie waiting to be released and enjoyed. Someone who’s specialties go well beyond successfully pouring milk into their cereal bowl for breakfast.
But never doubt my love for food. In fact I can honestly say I have enjoyed every one of the delicacies served. Sipping wine from across the counter while the real artists are at work. The recipient of a never ending stream of appetizers and entrée’s; emerging from the pots on top of the stove or in the depths of the oven. The wider and broader range of ingredients that come together in a heavenly aroma. More matter with less art. (and I am not even going to touch on dessert in this posting). Never one to rest with the most recent success, there almost seems delight in finding the next intriguing concoction. My waistline approves. My doctor is happy. What’s more to life than this?
And over time I have become familiar with the names of many of the keys to success. Herbs de Provence, coriander, fresh basil, Rosemary & Thyme; and on and on it goes. We have even reached the stage where the freshest of herbs adds that little extra element of taste, herbs scrounged from our garden, at our beck and call. Pots brimming full of spices that magically appear once the sun starts shining again. There seems to be a never ending realm of possibilities. New names, variations in combination and recipes from different sources. How hard can this be? The recipes the thing.
Well it’s Jamie and me tonight.
You see, “Cook with Jamie” is my guide. It does seems quite straightforward enough. Aside from the fact there are limited ingredients in my kitchen and I am substituting on the fly. I am up for the challenge. I have the book, the man. But what of the instructions? Therein lies the rub. How do you teach an engineer to follow arbitrary guidelines? How do you take someone who measures twice to wrap his mind around Jamie’s ramblings?
What’s a glug of olive oil? Does it matter if it’s a small bottle with a small opening or a bigger one with a larger opening. And how much is a good glug? Two normal glugs? Let alone a splash. Or even a drizzle. I'll be through the Oxford dictionary before I’m done. And let’s not even try to figure out what a knob of butter is. I’m not letting him into the apartment. Then there is a pinch of salt. And how much more is a good pinch. Let alone a sprinkle. Unless of course it’s season to taste. But to taste like what?
What the ‘ell. I might as well scrunch it all together, chuck it in, add a bunch of basil leaves, a squeeze of lemon and top it all with a block of cheese.
mmmm. Not bad for the first time. Jamie, pull up a chair. The lad doth protest too much, methinks.
Bloody ‘ell. What’s a bloke to do when he’s been on the other side of the counter most of his life.
I am well versed with the essential meals. To this I am true. A real breakfast. A bit of eggs, and chips messed all up with some bacon for an artery clogging, heart stopping breakfast. Soup and sandwiches for lunch. Dark rye bread with caraway seeds, german pepperseed salami, aged white cheddar cheese and a slice of tomato. Barbeques for dinner. Steaks, breasts, legs and fish. And don’t forget the potatoes, tossed with some pepper, salt and spicy seasonings. But once you expand beyond the basic ingredients, I step aside for the passionate cooks, the ones who can unlock the wide range in tastes and senses that lie waiting to be released and enjoyed. Someone who’s specialties go well beyond successfully pouring milk into their cereal bowl for breakfast.
But never doubt my love for food. In fact I can honestly say I have enjoyed every one of the delicacies served. Sipping wine from across the counter while the real artists are at work. The recipient of a never ending stream of appetizers and entrée’s; emerging from the pots on top of the stove or in the depths of the oven. The wider and broader range of ingredients that come together in a heavenly aroma. More matter with less art. (and I am not even going to touch on dessert in this posting). Never one to rest with the most recent success, there almost seems delight in finding the next intriguing concoction. My waistline approves. My doctor is happy. What’s more to life than this?
And over time I have become familiar with the names of many of the keys to success. Herbs de Provence, coriander, fresh basil, Rosemary & Thyme; and on and on it goes. We have even reached the stage where the freshest of herbs adds that little extra element of taste, herbs scrounged from our garden, at our beck and call. Pots brimming full of spices that magically appear once the sun starts shining again. There seems to be a never ending realm of possibilities. New names, variations in combination and recipes from different sources. How hard can this be? The recipes the thing.
Well it’s Jamie and me tonight.
You see, “Cook with Jamie” is my guide. It does seems quite straightforward enough. Aside from the fact there are limited ingredients in my kitchen and I am substituting on the fly. I am up for the challenge. I have the book, the man. But what of the instructions? Therein lies the rub. How do you teach an engineer to follow arbitrary guidelines? How do you take someone who measures twice to wrap his mind around Jamie’s ramblings?
What’s a glug of olive oil? Does it matter if it’s a small bottle with a small opening or a bigger one with a larger opening. And how much is a good glug? Two normal glugs? Let alone a splash. Or even a drizzle. I'll be through the Oxford dictionary before I’m done. And let’s not even try to figure out what a knob of butter is. I’m not letting him into the apartment. Then there is a pinch of salt. And how much more is a good pinch. Let alone a sprinkle. Unless of course it’s season to taste. But to taste like what?
What the ‘ell. I might as well scrunch it all together, chuck it in, add a bunch of basil leaves, a squeeze of lemon and top it all with a block of cheese.
mmmm. Not bad for the first time. Jamie, pull up a chair. The lad doth protest too much, methinks.
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