The Dumb Cluck in the Kitchen

I understand that in some parts of this country, especially in the south, there is a preference for meats of various kinds, blackened. This normally involves various spices, such as paprika, salt, cayenne, cumin, thyme, white pepper, and onion powder. Searing the chicken breast, for example, after oiling it and rubbing it with these condiments produces the desired blackening, and subsequent baking turns it into something special.

It is with great pleasure that I announce via this blog entry that I have found a much simpler way, involving no additional expense for condiments of any kind. Based on my extensive kitchen experience, this is how I produced it. One caveat: this recipe requires that you own a dog or cats, or maybe a ferret. Or a skunk.

1. Purchase a chicken. Without it, this recipe fails.

2. Unpack it and lose the giblets. I hate giblets.

3. Put it on a roasting rack (the vertical kind makes it self-basting).

4. Ask someone whose vision is good enough to read the oven temperature indicator to turn it on to 450 for you. (Thank you, A.)

4. Place it in the oven on the bottom rack. This assumes you have removed the top rack before the oven started to heat up.

5. Set the timer for about an hour and a half, if you like well-done chicken.

6. When the timer goes off, silence it and remove the beautiful, brown chicken, off whose bones the meat will be falling.

7. Turn off the oven.

8. Because your pets will materialize on cue when they hear you open the oven door, you cannot leave the bird on the kitchen counter. Instead, when you have carved off what you want to eat, return the bird, on the platter, to the oven, and securely close the door.

9. Set the table, throw together some accompaniments, and have dinner.

10. After dinner, you may remember that the oven was fairly dirty. Turn it on to self clean.

11. Busy yourself with other activities for about 20 minutes. By that time, the smell of well-done chicken should be permeating even the fabric of your curtains.

12. If you can see into the kitchen, run and cancel the self-clean cycle. If you can't, feel your way until you burn your fingers on something hot. It will be the stove. Cancel the self-clean cycle.

13. Tug at the oven door until you realize that the unreadable little red digital bar on the control panel is saying "LOCKED".

14. Busy yourself with other activities for about 40 minutes. By that time, the oven should have cooled enough to unlock the door.

15. Carefully, and with several pot holders or pairs of oven mitts, remove the platter and bird, and place on a non-combustible surface. Be careful not to set it down hard, as all the meat will fall off, except for the burnt parts which will stick to the bones like Velcro(tm).

16. If you prefer, transfer the chicken to a new plate and scrub the platter with any strong abrasive. The burnt-in lines on the bottom where the platter sat on the rack provides a pattern unique in the industry. Your dinner guests will be fascinated by the permanent black spots and the Rorschach smear where the chicken rested on the platter.

Voila. Blackened, Ready-To-Discard Chicken. This recipe will undoubtedly work with a wide variety of dishes, although blackening times may vary. Be sure to include cooling time, as the entree cannot be removed before the oven latch releases. And don't forget to clean your oven afterwards.

J has left the building

After a nineteen-month* struggle with the nastiness of breast cancer, the effects of chemotherapy and the short-lived relief of blood transfusions, Joana Hudgins, always previously referred to as "J" in these entries, has moved along. Nothing more to see here.

Jo was born in Ohio, and apparently always wanted to leave to see other places. She travelled to 26 of them, mainly reflecting her attraction to Florida and its beaches, birds and palm trees.

Her marriage to The Old Guy resulted in a few short years in Canada, where she learned how we say "out" and "about", eh? As close as we came to paradise was a quarter-acre lakeside bungalow north of Kingston, Ontario. When The Old Guy found new employment, it brought her back to Ohio, although this time to Jackson, in Appalachia. Two years later, that job was eliminated, and another move across the bottom of the state found us in Hamilton, Ohio, a city in the Greater Cincinnati area.

If one were to stick pins in a map where her friends are located, it would be too heavy to lift. Her fascination with the internet probably began with the need to express herself in writing, an endeavor that took her on flights of imagination, grounded in the hardship of not the happiest of childhoods. The net offered her an outlet for her loneliness as well as her sense of humor and her natural empathy for all types of creatures.

The Old Guy met her at the right time: email lists were in vogue, and Jo's musings became public on a listserv called "alt-support-loneliness". It was there that she caught the eye of this former high school English teacher, partly because she held nothing back, and that included creating the occasional portmanteau because her brain worked far faster than even her flying fingers.

Over our 14 years of married life, Jo continued on the nets, became expert on The Sims, got into website creation, and maintained a continuing dialog with anyone who would listen. There were many.

The drum circle called OGADE was a compelling interest for her, not only for its rhythmic appeal, but for the friendships she made there.

Her life in the politics of social justice was just the latest in her many creative ways of expressing her love for people and her frustration at the selfishness and avarice of the oligarchy that saps the political will of this republic. In her role as webmistress for both her own website and the local Democratic party, she worked beyond her limitations to bring in a better life for all.

Her five surviving children experienced unconditional love, and so did the world of animals. Jo got involved in rehabilitation of five raccoon babies, three skunks, a few bunnies and many cats and the birds they wounded. Various landlords had trouble with that side of her loving nature. The internet became her daily source for information on how to heal the hurts of all creatures, great and small. Although she became a fan of "Deadliest Catch", she could not help commenting on "those poor king crabs" while watching an episode. Fortunately, she could not bring them all home.

Neither she nor the oncology team could heal the very aggressive breast cancer that she discovered too late for remediation. It was difficult for her to leave, for a time. But her unconditional love and playful humor glowed brightly even as her candle began to flicker out. Life without Jo will go on, better for her having shown us the way.

*Footnote: Jo was diagnosed in February 2008. I can't do math. Also, her daughter tells me that the phrase "a few bunnies" should be amended to read, "more than a few bunnies". I do remember having to get up early each morning when the dew was still on the ground to pick the finest, largest dandelion leaves (and there were thousands to choose from, such was my groundskeeping expertise) for feeding time.

Parking: now, there's the ticket!

What is it about parking on your driveway (as opposed to driving on a parkway?)

This isn't a rant, or at least it's not intended to be. There's always the possibility that it will turn into one.

The fact is, however, that the world divides into two types of people: those who, when they come over to your house and notice that your car is parked in the driveway, blithely park behind you, and the (very few) others who don't.

Think about it. In our situation, we have a long, very narrow, single strip of tired old asphalt that accommodates three cars, but we only have two. So when someone comes over, sees a parking space behind the second car, they have a decision to make. For most, that is easy, apparently. Nature abhors a vacuum.

Here's the thing. There are no parking prohibitions on our street. It's a long, dead-end avenue, filled with houses populated mainly by older people and younger families, many of whom have only one vehicle. There's room in front of our house, and our neighbors', to park at least six vehicles. That's more cars than we have friends.

Here's the next thing. My wife's disabilities qualify our cars for handicapped parking. Unlike most, she doesn't put the tag on her mirror unless she's actually in a designated parking space. I have a duplicate tag which I use only when she is with me, or I'm picking her up from some appointment or store. Nevertheless, everyone who visits us knows about her condition. So why, then, would they not assume that I need extra room on the driveway to load the trunk or the back seat with the wheelchair, walker, oxygen tank and whatever else is needed? Sometimes I need to get out and back the car in, to put the passenger door on the easiest side for loading.

Unfortunately, there seems to be a rule around here that if your car is more than ten feet away from the house, it is fair game for vandals. There are street lights, but they are largely concealed by ancient tree foliage. One night both rear doors of my car were keyed in a random spiral pattern. Another time, a brand new front tire was slashed, but that was likely because we were proudly displaying an Obama lawn sign prior to the elections. Raccoons don't carry shivs, so it had to be a message from a political opponent.

In an effort to keep the car from being damaged, I leave it close behind the other one, so that when the vandals appear, the porch light automatically turns on. At least this allows them to complete their masterpieces with less chance of hurting themselves. Bottom line: there is generally a full car length of free space behind my car.

On some occasions, I've maneuvered like a truck rodeo contestant, inching back and forth with much turning of wheels and adjusting of mirrors, to make it out of the three-car trap. This usually ruts the lawn somewhat, but as long as it doesn't happen in the spring, the grooves even out over time.

Let's be clear here: there is no possibility of a double width driveway. The gas and water lines would end up being directly under any such extension, so that in the event of a problem, a Bobcat would be required.

I think there are two influences at work in this whole situation. America's car-centered culture demands convenience. Why have a car if you have to walk more than twenty feet to its doors? Hence, the development of valet parking services, the drive-thru church, the drive-by funeral home, and, of course, the fast food joints.

Apart from the obvious air and noise pollution that occurs while drivers wait impatiently at a window, there is much to be said for not having to get out of a car to go into a pharmacy, especially when you look at the lineup at the dispensary, and the distance you have to travel to the rear of the store to get in line. It's always good to know that the fast-food joints are doing their damnedest to get you fed up faster.

The other influence, sad to say, is thoughtlessness. I never park in anyone's driveway unless there is a good reason, or better yet, an invitation, to do so. Why would I want to inconvenience myself by having to go out to the car (especially in winter) to move it so that the host can get out of his own driveway? Why waste the gas and generate the pollution?

Even if I were carrying, say, a trunk load of concrete blocks, my instincts are to deliver them and then find a parking space elsewhere until it comes time to leave. Who knows? If there were an emergency, wouldn't it be better not to have blocked the paramedics?

But judging from the number of perfectly-abled drivers who pull up into a handicapped parking space, hang a permit from the mirror (or not) and march into the shopping centers, this whole parking thing is never going to go away until the car does.

So I'm sorry, I guess this was a rant after all. I guess I'm guilty of the desire for automotive convenience after all.