Bison riding...?

I just wanted to mention--I think it is strange how many hits I get on this page based off of people clicking on Google results for searches on "bison riding." Do people actually ride bison for sport and recreation?

The latest such hit occurred early this morning at 4:19 am. The user doing the search was in Muttenz, Switzerland. Perhaps the Swiss view bison riding as a typical American hobby?

Kitchen fail

Alton Brown has never lied to me before. So when I watched the episode of Good Eats about milk, and he told me that homemade cottage cheese is way better than the store-bought stuff, I believed him.

It wasn't much of a stretch of the imagination to believe it for me, actually. See, I don't really like cottage cheese. I like the idea of it--low-fat, high-protein, slightly salty cheese product. I like cheese, I like salt, and protein helps me to live. It should all add up, right? But the actual placing of spoonfuls of cottage cheese in my mouth never really lives up to the ideal.

So when Alton Brown promised a better product that I could make in the comfort of my own kitchen, I decided to jump in. I bought a gallon of skim milk and a small bottle of white vinegar. I enhanced my kitchen tool box with a candy/fry thermometer.

I poured the entire gallon in a large saucepan, clipped the thermometer to the side of the pan, and slowly raised the temperature of the milk over medium heat until it reached 120 degrees Fahrenheit. I turned off the flame and poured in three-fourths of a cup of vinegar, gave the concoction a stir, and let it sit for 30 minutes. I lined a colander with a flour sack tea towel and strained the whey-vinegar-water solution off of the mass of casein protein. I gathered up the edges of the towel and rinsed the clump of protein under cool running water for three to five minutes, let it drain a bit in the colander, and put it in a bowl.

I sprinkled it with a little kosher salt and poured half a cup of whole milk over it.*

I put a spoonful in my mouth.

I chewed the salty paste.

Yes, paste. That's about what it tasted like. Maybe this is why the stuff from the store is so high in sodium--add enough salt to milk protein paste and it's palatable?

The thing that bugs me the most is that I don't know if I did something wrong, if something out of my control went wrong, or if I just really don't like cottage cheese.

In the end, I still trust Alton. Our joint successes far outshine the tasteless failure that sits leftover in a Gladware container in my refrigerator.


*Alton said to use half-and-half, but come on--I was trying to be healthy here.

Genius

I just watched this TED.com video.* Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the recent popular book Eat, Pray, Love, explains a new way to look at creativity and the creative process. I've embedded the video below, but for those of you who don't have 19 minutes' worth of free time or patience right now, I'll sum it up: Creative types carry the burden of being expected (and expecting themselves) to be creative all the time. Creativity can seem like cutting parts of yourself out, a bit at a time, and being constantly burdened with producing at the cost of personal sacrifice. A better way to understand creative genius, according to Ms. Gilbert, is to appreciate that it comes from an outside source. The Romans referred to creative muses as Genius. These ethereal fairies may not really exist, but maybe another creative force does, and maybe it illuminates humans from time to time, giving us glimpses of the Divine. Reshaping our thinking this way takes the burden off of the writer, the musician, the artist, and gives back some credit where credit is due. This is, I think, a brilliant way to perceive the creative process.

Interestingly, the main point that I caught hold of while Ms. Gilbert was explaining this was not the idea that I need to recognize outer inspiration in my own creative processes, but rather that I need to put more emphasis on the efforts required of me to make that inspiration become something worthwhile. At one point in her speech, after describing what inspiration can be like, she counterbalances it with this statement:

I'm a mule, and the way that I have to work is that I have to get up at the same time every day, and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly.

This sentence hit me hard, and I realized that at times I neglect the fact that I have to work hard for what's important to me.

This may sound like I'm being harsh on myself. Or it may sound like I'm an idiot for not realizing that I have to work hard for important things. Please bear with me.

First off--I'm not an idiot. I've been familiar with the Law of the Harvest for quite some time, but I think that I sometimes expect to be able to set the terms of what needs to be sown. In high school I started to exercise in earnest. I remember coming to a decision that it was important for me to be in shape. But I would lift weights and run and do sit-ups and push-ups for maybe two weeks, then go stand in front of the mirror, bare from the waste up, and be totally unimpressed with myself. Where was the definition? Why was I still so soft? I had worked hard--really hard--for two whole weeks, with no visible results. It took several times of starting and stopping before I finally realized what was required of me and got into a long-term exercise routine that yielded a leaner body and more defined muscles.**

Second--I don't think I'm being too harsh. I do recognize that in spite of my occasional shortsightedness there are trends of knowing what's required of me and giving my all to get it done. I knew what it would take to become an Eagle Scout. I prepared for and carried out a hard-working two-year mission, learning Spanish throughout. I completed my B.A. and I'm nearly done with my M.A. Perhaps the key difference is that the things I know I need to put X amount of work into have some semblance of defined parameters. I knew from age 12 what I needed to do to achieve the rank of Eagle--it was outlined in my Scout Handbook. I know how long two years is, how long four years is, what courses I needed to take during those four years, et cetera. But nobody was able to tell me how many weeks of hard exercise it would take to get a line of definition onto my abs, and nobody has ever set out how many drafts I need to rewrite in order to produce a publishable account of my Great Uncle Ronald's sordid life.

The brilliant thing about Ms. Gilbert's speech and what it taught me is that it's nothing really new or novel. As I said, I know the Law of the Harvest. And it's not like every time I write something I just sit down and expect the light of creativity to illuminate my keyboard and stream art onto the screen. One of my favorite posts I've written for this blog is my reflections on seeing Dave Brubeck perform in New York. That post is the result of a writing process that involved some research, the transcription of portions of Ken Burns' documentary, and a few revisions and minor rewrites before I felt satisfied with my work, satisfied that it reflected what I felt and thought when I heard and saw Mr. Brubeck perform.

There's a point to all of this. Maybe I'm learning now that if I want to be satisfied with my paper on the anti-sell-out culture of ska, I need to become more of a mule. The creative spark was there--something inspired me to research a paper asking whether or not ska bands and fans really care about selling out or not. I must admit that it's a pretty cool idea and the foundation for a potentially great paper. But so far I haven't put the work into it that has been required. My biographical piece on my Great Uncle Ronald is pretty good, but I need to sweat and labor and barrel through it awkwardly to make it great and get it published. I eventually learned what it would take to get my body into shape. Maybe now I'm learning what it takes to really write well, and not wait for some brilliant idea to strike me and expect to be able to do it justice with a first draft.



*If you're not familiar with TED, it's worth taking a look at the site. TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) is a non-profit organization that hosts an annual conference in the name of "ideas worth spreading." The conference consists of several short speeches given by leading writers, business people, scientists, et cetera, all of whom have something, supposedly, worthwhile to share. Some of the talks are definitely better than others. Like I said: worth perusing the site.

**Then I fell through a roof and injured my lower back, ruining that for the rest of the summer. But that's another story...

Grilled

So I really enjoyed my dinner tonight. I just had to share. If I'd had some foresight, I would have taken a picture before I supped, but I was hungry. And it was delicious.

I purchased some sockeye salmon* at Whole Foods on Monday and I decided to grill it--it had been a while since I'd stoked the grill fires and it sounded good. I rubbed some foil (shiny side out) with a tiny bit of olive oil and put the fillet on it. Then I rubbed about a tablespoon more of olive oil over the meat, sprinkled it with a pinch of kosher salt, and applied some dried dill (I would love to try this with a couple of sprigs of fresh dill). I topped the fillet with some thin lemon slices, covering the whole surface area. Then I folded up the sides of the foil and nearly wrapped it, leaving a sort of vent open at the top. I didn't want to seal it completely--got to let some of that smoke in to flavor it.

I got that started on the barbecue, the coals piled to one side and the salmon on the other so as to keep direct heat from cooking the bottom too fast. While that sat for about 10-15 minutes in the covered grill, I cut the woody ends off of half a bunch of asparagus and put it in a plastic bag with some olive oil, a splash of champagne vinegar, and some salt and pepper. I tossed the whole thing and brought it down to the grill. The salmon was nearly done, so I closed up the foil tent around it and put it far from the coals, letting it cook the rest of the way in its own heat. I arranged the asparagus stalks directly over the coals and let them cook for a couple of minutes, then rotated them all and let them cook another minute or so.

The whole thing was really delicious and hit the spot. The salmon was not overdone and no one of the seasonings overpowered the others. I'll admit that the asparagus could have used a a little less salt and just a little less vinegar, but overall the seasoning was a winning combination, and it complemented the salmon well.

This evening I am content.

*Here's a little tidbit that I've picked up: beware of fish labeled as "Atlantic salmon." The Atlantic salmon has been fished to near extinction. The breed still exists, but almost exclusively as farmed fish. Due to this, Atlantic salmon will have been raised in crowded, netted-in coastal environments, with diets heavy in antibiotics and waters rich in fish poo. Opting for sockeye or "wild Alaskan" or some other variety will help lower the overall crud content of your fillet. Mercury is still a factor with wild fish, though.

Old and cheap

No, this post isn't about your mom (zing!). It's about the chocolate I just ate.

I'm sitting up at my client site waiting for a relatively simple task to be performed that will enable me to finish up my work here in about ten minutes and go back to where I'm supposed to work (and where I have personal email access, incidentally). I ate my lunch, I've been catching up on blog reading... still no movement on the simple task I'm awaiting. I've walked up and down the hallway a couple of times and I keep passing this bowl of Easter candy. Chocolate is one of my few weaknesses, but it's that terribly cheap brand that comes in large coin shapes (for Easter and Halloween) as well as eggs (Easter only). I kept telling myself that cheap chocolate simply isn't worth it, and that held me at bay for the first five hours today.

But I just walked by the bowl again and I couldn't resist the siren song of chocolate any more. I took an egg. I unwrapped it. I ate it. I felt sick. Not only is it cheap chocolate--it's old chocolate. Probably from last Easter. Urgl.

My resolve is renewed.

Rush Write 3.23 (on 4.08)

In response to this post:

1. Artists gratify men’s urge for immortality by demonstrating that it is possible. An artist may not necessarily capture my visage in oils, or my deeds in verse, etc. (let alone become famous enough to make his rendering of me known to the world). However. The fact that some Italian lady who once sat for Da Vinci can capture the heart of the world, inspire songs, and cause all to bemusedly wonder about her smirk, that tells me that some of us are immortal. That some of us do live forever. And if it’s possible for some Italian lady, then why not me? Why not all of us?

2. “Joyce” is telling us that Homer’s art (specifically the Iliad and the Odyssey) , and the myriad works of art that it inspired did more to preserve the memory of Troy and the war that brought Greece to it than any formal history ever did. That without Homer’s works, Troy would be insignificant and unremembered. I must agree. What other evidence do we have, aside from ruins that were only discovered and identified centuries after the fact and recognized because we knew what Homer told us?

3. I would say that according to “Joyce,” Homer’s telling of the Trojan War is even more valuable/valid because of its inaccuracies. And here I mostly agree with him. The inaccuracies are, arguably, the artistic license of Homer. The myths that are mixed with the history are the things that enrich us, in “Joyce’s” view. The embellishments of Ulysses’ character are what make us relate to him and treasure his tale. Accuracy may affect a work of art’s value as a history, but since when has historical worth been the ultimate standard of value?

Music of the spheres

I remember learning about the two Voyager space craft when I was in junior high. Of course by that point they had been hurtling through the cosmos for nigh onto 17 years, but it was news to me. The best part of the earth press kit we put together in case some extraterrestrial intelligent life happened across our little craft was a golden record. The record contains greetings in 55 languages, various naturally occurring sounds from earth, several music tracks, and the recorded brain waves of Ann Druyan*, the last wife of Carl Sagan.

This is all really fascinating, but what caught my attention the most when I recently rediscovered all of this was the list of musical tracks that the world decided to put on the record to represent our people and cultures to the universe. Twenty-three different nations collaborated to choose the 90 minutes of music. Most countries selected various folk songs and classical pieces (Bach was a very popular choice--represented three times (Beethoven is on there twice--every other composer only once)). The United States also chose a classical piece for one of its selections--we collaborated with the U.S.S.R. and France to get "Sacrificial Dance" from Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring" on the album. But the rest of our selections were more... unique:

• "Johnny B. Goode" by Chuck Berry
• "Melancholy Blues" by Louis Armstrong and his Hot Seven
• "Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground" by Blind Willie Johnson
• "Night Chant," a traditional Navajo chant

I love that we chose jazz, blues, and rock & roll to send out into space, along with a representation of America's aboriginal cultures. I think it's also noteworthy that all of the artists featured from our selections are minorities--blacks and Native Americans.

We're awesome.

As I was learning all of this, I came across this quotation from writer Darren Wershler-Henry:

Design a faster than light spacecraft and then overtake the Voyager II probe for the sole purpose of replacing the gold LP of the second Brandenburg concerto with a copy of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (from his poem The Tapeworm Foundry: andor the dangerous prevalence of imagination).

Also awesome. I mean, this is probably meant to be more clever or in jest, but it's an interesting idea, right? Like maybe we did earth a disservice by putting so much Bach on there instead of diversifying a bit. Maybe David Bowie's alter-ego is truly stellar, while you kind of have to be from here to get the Brandenburg concerto.

I'm curious to know what music other people would have picked to go on the golden record. Here's the track listing. Thoughts?

*Ann Druyan on recording her brainwaves:

Earlier I had asked Carl if those putative extraterrestrials of a billion years from now could conceivably interpret the brain waves of a meditator. Who knows? A billion years is a long, long time, was his reply. On the chance that it might be possible why don't we give it a try?

Two days after our life-changing phone call, I entered a laboratory at Bellevue Hospital in New York City and was hooked up to a computer that turned all the data from my brain and heart into sound. I had a one-hour mental itinerary of the information I wished to convey. I began by thinking about the history of Earth and the life it sustains. To the best of my abilities I tried to think something of the history of ideas and human social organization. I thought about the predicament that our civilization finds itself in and about the violence and poverty that make this planet a hell for so many of its inhabitants. Toward the end I permitted myself a personal statement of what it was like to fall in love.

Sellout

Thy name is Cabeza.

Posted from my iPhone

Snow... snow... snow... snow... SNOW!

So I went out my front door this morning and saw flakes drifting down. Without thinking I said, "Aw, shoot--snow!"

Immediately I realized that 10-year-old Cabeza, if he were here, would be sorely disappointed in what a lame adult I had become. Therefore, I repent of my dread of traffic and ice and embrace the possibility of building a snow man (or maybe a snow toilet (ah, Soutridge)). Let it snow!

Dreams: Soccer and the LOC

I figure I should get this one written down and published before I forget any more of it. A night or two after the Nazi invasion dream where I tasted of young ovine, I dreamed I was leading a group of fellows from the elders quorum in my ward to a "manrichment" activity. We were in DC, and I had a soccer ball. We walked past the Supreme Court and took a turn at the entrance to the Library of Congress. Once inside, we spread out and I gave the ball a good kick. It careened off of walls and bounced through the stacks, landing near another guy from my quorum and barely having time to rest before he sent it flying in another direction. It's funny, because I remember in my dream thinking that we were playing soccer--that there were goals and everything--but it seems like really we were just generally making noise and trying to get the ball to bounce off as many fixtures as possible.

After several minutes of general running around and yelling and chasing the ball, an irate middle-aged lady librarian confronted me at the top of an open staircase and started getting all passive-agressive. "Does this seem like an appropriate activity for the Library of Congress? Hmmmmm?"

Since she was playing it overly cool, I decided I would too. I glanced down at the banister and noticed I had a plate of potato chips and a big bowl of onion dip resting at the top there. I reached down nonchalantly and scooped an extra-big helping of dip onto one chip, then shoved it into my mouth. "Sure." Crunch-munch-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack... "I don't see why not." Another chip, more loud munching.

This had the desired effect of Smug Dream Jared, as the librarian dropped her act and started yelling at all of us to get out of there. Security guards showed up and led us all out. But it was fun while it lasted.

There was a second part of the dream, something about having to pack up and check out of a boarding house, but I really don't remember much of anything about it.

Dreams: Nazis and Lamb

In the tradition of the Shark's dream-recording blog posts, I share with you two recent excursions into my id:

Island of the Nazis

On the night of 2 January I found myself on a boat approaching an island off the U.S. Pacific coast. The island was fairly covered with trees, but a few hundred feet from the shore where we docked there was a cabin, overlooking the ocean. My brother Scott and I went to the cabin, where we sat and talked for a moment (I don't remember the conversation). I glanced out the open door and noticed people moving up from the shoreline toward us. Nazis! One of them was dressed like some sort of officer, and the rest were his stormtroopers.

I turned the table I was sitting on onto its side to use as a shield, then pulled a small handgun from my pocket. It was old and I wasn't even sure it if was loaded, but I had no time to check the clip. The Nazis were coming through the door! I put my arm up over the edge of the table to see if I could get a few rounds off, but the trigger was stuck. The officer pulled his Luger and shot me in the wrist. I dropped my pistol. I started to bleed pretty badly, but the Nazi officer didn't seem to care.

"Vhat iz ze radio frequency you are broadcasting on??!" I refused to answer--on principle, really, since I had no idea what he was talking about. This angered the officer, so he put his gun to my head and was getting ready to pull the trigger when Scott blurted out the answer, saving my life. This satisfied the Nazis, and they allowed Scott to right the table and help me lie on top of it while he administered first aid to try and stop the bleeding. I had been trying to apply pressure to my wrist this whole time, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. "I don't think it's really all that bad," Scott said. "It looks like a pretty small wound." I looked and saw that he was right. Then I looked away, looked back, and saw a gaping hole opening into my forearm. A nurse (where did she come from?) came in, looked at my arm, and announced that part of it would need to be amputated immediately. And it was.

Someone else who showed up in the cabin said that my amputated flesh shouldn't be wasted, and proceeded to toss it onto a grill. A few minutes later it was done, but the cook decided that he probably shouldn't feed it to anyone, seeing as how that would be cannibalism. But he figured that before he threw it out he should offer me a bite. "Don't you want to know what you taste like?" Turns out that I did. It also turns out I taste like lamb.

Okay, so maybe one is enough for now. I'll post the second dream tonight or tomorrow.