In Her Defense

This is a nice, pretty, soothing image, isn't it? I bet it doesn't make you want to kill me even a little bit. Even if you're my wife.

All right, I don't want anyone to think that what I posted last time should be taken as any kind of criticism of my sweetie. Whatever she does is fine with me, even if it isn't. But it is, and I don't care and it pisses me off anyway, and sometimes I know a tiny little bit about love.

And just to prove it, here's a murder defense.

I think the missus might need it. If you follow me on Facebook (and what kind of fool wouldn't?), you've probably noticed a thread in which she very strongly implies -- comes dangerously close to stating flat-out -- that the only reasons she hasn't killed me are that I make her laugh, and I cook for her.

I believe there is a third factor at work, but that's not important. What is important is that if the missus wises up and croaks me, somebody needs to make sure that her attorney finds out about this blog, and about this post in particular.

Okay, Mr./Ms. Attny. Make sure the jury knows that as of this date, the missus and I have had the following conversation, with minor variations, somewhere between seven and ten times. Please clarify that this sort of snottery is particularly loathsome when it comes from a loutish meatloaf the size and shape of an upended sofa who is watching Walking With Dinosaurs for the one-hundred and fifty millionth time:

The missus is on her way out the door.

The Oaf: Off to your not-a-cult?
The Missus: It's not a cult.
The Oaf: I understand. That's why I specified.
The Missus: Fuck you.

It is very important to note that written transcripts fail to give the full weight of this exchange. Regard it as an iceberg -- the visible portion is what is said, but the bulk of its offensiveness lies in the manner in which the word 'understand' is spoken.

Of course, that begs the question of how something like this could occur. How could one person step into the same joke so many times? Because the real secret to her lasting love for me is the mysterious third factor I referred to earlier: an extremely poor short-term memory.

That's right. I'm tolerated because, as Lovecraft wrote, the missus is mercifully unable to correlate the contents of her mind. Which is why I'm putting this here. Because if she winds up running me through the Vita Mix and pouring me down the drain, I won't be around to remind her why she did it.

Woo

Of course it's horrible to make fun of someone's spiritual beliefs, but we've already established that I'm a horrible person. I mean, if you read this blog you have some idea of how awful it must be to live with me. The moodiness, the financial issues, the intoxication, the so-called 'zone of destruction.'

The thing to remember is that the missus can be every bit as frustrating as me. Two wrongs don't make a right, but sometimes they make parity.

Let me give you an example.

The other morning we were discussing the issue of my eyes. This will come up later, probably, but here's the basic deal -- my eyes have gotten hell of worse over the last couple of years, and my deteriorating eyesight has given me a lot of unexpected grief. An idea I had for spectacle technology a number of years back has actually come into production (you'd be amazed at the frequency with which that kind of thing happens), and it's a specific for my condition. They look amazing. So we've been discussing the possibility of my getting a pair of fucking nine-hundred dollar glasses.

So in the midst of the conversation, the missus says, "I know it's woo, but I want you to try this." And she pulls out the laminated diagram shown above. "Now put your nose to Amma's feet."

"No," I said. "I'm just not going to do that. It's not going to happen."

So, y'all heard of Amma? She's the huggin' guru. The good news is that her organization is not yet showing signs of being riddled with corruption, she seems like a decent enough sort so far, and she's responsible for a goodly amount of charity work.

The bad news is that she spreads plague. I suppose it's unfair to say that she spreads plague personally, like she travels with jars of the stuff, but still. If your spouse had something like this on their record, would you just let it go? You would not. Because it is hilarious.

Of course, it's important to maintain perspective. See, when I describe the missus's spirituality to a third party, I call her a serial cultist. Because she is. Here's one of our standard conversations.

The missus is on her way out the door.

The Oaf: Culting it up tonight?
The Missus: It isn't a cult.
The Oaf: Well, enjoy the dogma and charismatic leadership.
The Missus: Fuck you.

Look, Amma is pretty fucking harmless at the moment. But the missus has been involved in shit like The Miracle of Love. (Hey, cultsters! She got out when Kalindi started crapping everything up!) Honestly, I'm willing to bet that she was in the Process and the Family and she just hasn't copped to it yet.

I'm thinking when she made the switch, her decision-making process was kind of like this. "Yeah, Miracle of Love is an internationally recognized menace to decency, but they just aren't spreading plague. There's gotta be somebody spreading plague." Then she googled plague gurus, got the forms, and signed up with Amma. (Do cults have an entrance exam? I'll have to ask the missus.)

So anyway, back to my poor old eyebones. The missus hands me this card and says, "Here, put your nose to Amma's feet."

This is part of an actual graven image intended for purposes of worship, and the stuff all over her feet is probably curds or ghee.

On the other hand, it is a cult, I have no idea what they do, and this really, really, really looks like a gross jiz shot from chubbygurufeet.com. "Put your nose to Amma's feet," my ass.

And I said, "No. Not happening. No can do."

"And then look up, and down, and left, and right..."

"It isn't going to happen. This will not pass."

And she glares at me. "You are so narrow-minded."

That nailed a certain dynamic in our house. Because the last idea she had regarding my eyes was that if I put pee and cod liver oil into them the lenses would become more flexible. My refusal to even give this a try was held up as evidence of my essential pessimism. "He wouldn't even try."

So that is the level of discourse. To dismiss the possibility that marination in a hellish vinaigrette of fish-0il and urine might be good for my eyes, to abstain from ophthalmological idolatry, is to be 'narrow-minded.' 'Negativistic.' 'A poopy-head.'

I don't care. I'm still not putting my nose to Amma's feet.

Green Chili Ratatouille

Okay, someone asked me for the recipe so I did the art real fast, and then I remembered what my day's been like, and I started to giggle. Now aren't you sorry you asked? Jesus, I'm the goddamned king of too much information.

Okay, here's the deal. Since I'm not the kind of person who cooks by measuring and following recipes, I won't tell you how to cook anything until after you've cooked it. But I will tell you how I cooked it, and it is on that basis that I once wrote a recipe. I am starting to suspect I may have more of these in me.

And so...

Green Chili Ratatouille
for the Missus, my beloved Karen,
who puts up with me

So when you're shopping, the missus will ask you what vegetables you'd be interested in cooking. You've been struggling with a roasted zucchini, yellow summer squash, eggplant, and pepper salad, so you get eggplant, yellow summer squash, and zucchini.

When you get back to the cart, the missus is holding up a sack of ultrasoft tomatoes from the used vegetable section, where the produce is cheap and rotting. She asks if you would be willing to do something with the tomatoes and basil. Inspect the bag; cringe at the condensed droplets of fetid moisture on the inside surface; decide enough are salvageable to make a tomato sauce a possibility. Impulsively agree out of mingled culinary curiosity and the pliability induced by a waxing libido.

While in line, avoid staring at the young woman in the blue blouse and blue jeans two lines over by staring into the cart. Think about the idea that Mrs. Popeyehead is a sort of a Greek Chorus while Mr. Popeyehead is a Threshold Guardian. Wonder where the living fuck your copy of The Writer's Journey is; it seemed kinda shitty when you looked at it before, but Nancy Kress gave it kudos, and she's Nancy motherfucking Kress and all.

Looking at the eggplant, zucchini, yellow summer squash, tomatoes and basil, you suddenly remember MFK Fisher (oh, man. Back in the day... and she liked men. She liked artists and intellectuals, but the bit she did about that butcher meant that she also had at least an aesthetic appreciation of sweaty loudmouthed brutally masculine basically offensive types... Jesus. MFK Fisher. What would it be like to be with someone who could cook?)

The Missus will lean against you and ask you if you would want to be with someone who was really tall. Explain that as long as the woman is substantial enough so that it doesn't make you feel as though you're with a child, height is no issue. Remind her of the ex, who is exactly the same height as the missus. (Jesus, she was strong. You were stronger, heh heh heh, but it was always fun wrazzlin' around with her. Felt like you were accomplishing something. She always started it, and she always got mad when she lost. What is it in me that takes such delight in pissing off my objects of desire?) Look down at the Missus -- yep. Still the one you fell in love with. Give her a hug; yeah, we're in line at the grocery. Fuck you all. Go on; try me out, motherfucker. Ha!

Someone comes up and takes over bagging the groceries. Stare at the Missus. Yep, yep, yep. Stare around the store in general.

Oh, my lord. Does she even understand what that means, or is she just trying shit out? You're not complaining, just... Jesus. Fucking college kids look like they're twelve; briefly feel like the lowest, most bestial lecher on the planet.

Wheel the cart out to the car. Some motherfucker in a car just keep coming at you. Push the cart right into his fucking car -- his window's open, so you can grab his fucking head, pull it out, and lean on the motherfucker...

Jesus motherfucking christ, dude. Don't do that. That's horrible! You're a horrible fucking vicious animal and if they're smart they'll pin you down in a steel net and systematically blow you apart with a shotgun. Anyway, it would piss the Missus off and you want to stay on her good side.

What was that about MFK Fisher?

Eggplant, zucchini, yellow summer squash. Soft, ripe red tomatoes. Oh, yeah -- she had a recipe for something called Minorcan Stew, sort of a ratatouille thing with red peppers in it. You know who was hot? The Willendorf Venus. Don't kid yourself.

... it would be easier to just cut that shit up and put it in a crock pot than do the roast vegetable salad. And it would use up those tomatoes, and if you threw some of that fresh basil down on it when you serve it up...

So when you get home, you start off by taking the tomatoes -- oh, those are soft -- and sorting and rinsing them. The missus comes up and says she forgot to get tomatoes for her salad. Invite her to take her pick of those you've cleaned; damn. There's this and there's that and she's still fucking got it...

You're got two long Chinese eggplants, seven tiny zucchini, and six medium yellow summer squash. But you didn't get any fucking red peppers. Ratatouille? Minorcan stew? Oh, fuck, you need peppers, dude, or the whole flavor profile will be fucked. Maybe there's a jar of roasted red peppers in the pantry...

No.

But there are those canned Hatch chilis from Trader Joe's. Hmmm... Hmmm...

You know who's hot? That lady on Modern Family, Sophia Vergera or something. She seems like she's got a sense of humor, too. Someone you could actually fucking stand to be around... Ruben's wife was hella cute but she was probably a total dope. Fucking a stupid person is the crassest form of bestiality... no matter how big her ass is.

Right. Right. Back to work.

Drizzle a bit of olive oil over the tomatoes. Rub it in until they're coated and slippery all over. Put 'em in the oven at 550 -- as hot as it gets.

Dude, get a fucking grip. Maybe you should think about pulling Nixon's face apart jowl by jowl. They'd stick together like Velcro...

Heh, heh, heh. You really are a sick fucker, you know? What a visual imagination -- 's like watching a movie. That paranoid fuck taught America to expect and accept criminal behavior from its presidents, and that legacy led directly to the horrors of the Bush regime. Bastards...

The missus comes in and asks if she can cook beets in the oven with the tomatoes. Sure, sure... Huh. This is okay; usually she just kind of barges in and gets in the way but this time it seems like she's got the dance, where both can work continuously without making each other get out of the way... Cool. You're not gonna expect it to happen again, but hey. She's got the dance.

If your hands weren't so greasy... She'd fucking kill you if you got greasy handprints all over...

Okay, chop up one yellow onion, and one Vidalia onion. Heat up the big skillet, then add a drizzle of olive oil and throw in the onions. Chop up two big shallots -- jesus, the shallots you bought today were pathetic, when they're that small they aren't worth fucking with. Wait until the big ones come back in season, dude.

Throw the shallots in with the onion; stir, scraping up the caramelized juices from the bottom. Hmmm... Add a little water and deglaze the pan. Let it brown again; deglaze again.

Thinly slice six cloves of garlic. Chuck 'em in the pan, stir, deglaze, caramelize.

Take the tomatoes out of the oven. The missus will come in and offer to peel them. "The peels come off the way skin skin comes off," she says.

You say, "Well, then, just imagine they're boils." She laughs. Some people appreciate a sick fuck, thank god.

Slice the vegetables. Remove cores from the tomatoes and squeeze the juice into the pan with the bouquet of stinking lilies, using it to deglaze. Damn, those are still hot. Ow, ow, ow -- pain is good for you, you fucking... Ow. Don't be a pussy, dude.

Crush the tomatoes. Use them to scrub up the traces of caramelized tomato juice from the bottom of the pan.

Get out the big crockpot. You were going to make beans today, but there's no way to fit all this crap in the small crockpot. Put down a layer of caramelized onions, etc. Put down one can of Hatch green chilis. You'll eat Ortega if that's what there is, but still. Fuck Ortega.

Put down a layer of squashes and eggplant. Put down a layer of tomatoes. Salt heavily. Repeat. Pour all the various deglazings and juices over the top and shit that smells good already. Put the top on the crockpot and put it on high.

You know who's hot?

Four hours later, it's the fucking green chili ratatouille that's hot. Oh, man. That's actually way better than the salad would have been, and the green chilis really work. Oh, man, that is sweet...

Is it you or did spring come late this year?

Back On Track

I'm starting to experiment with the illustrations for the next issue of Swill -- I've got to have it done by the start of July...

As I mentioned before, I'm going to be taking samples from the print series I'm doing and rendering them as black-and-white images suitable for xerography. Here's the source of the above image.

Well, the missus is out of town for the next few days. Her mother fell and wound up in the hospital for a while; it's a worrisome situation but so far things seem to be going as well as possible.

Before the missus left we patched things up. I got two days of a serious cold freeze -- I tried to kiss her goodnight on Wednesday and the look she gave me convinced me that I should keep my face away from her mouth for a while -- but Friday morning she yelled me down from my studio and huffily told me that she needed me now so I couldn't be distant and sulky. I have to admit, two nights of going to sleep hated had, in fact, put me in the mood to be distant and sulky but I hadn't gotten the opportunity to act on the impulse.

(And in a neat about-face she went from pissed-off to overly-solicitous -- she realized that my transgression indicated that I've been unhappy lately. No shit, Sherlock.)

Being good meant attending some social functions associated with her daughter's graduation (a doctorate in biology from UC Berkeley is indeed worth celebrating) and making a nice dish to bring to one of them. Normally hanging out with that crowd leaves me emotionally strip-mined for days -- they're perfectly nice people and some of them are working scientists, but they're...

Well, not the kinda folks I hang out with. They talk about things like sports and stereos and awesome snowboarding. I feel as though I have nothing to say to them, no subjects of conversation. I withdraw and start hating myself for being a loathsome pariah. As I said, the emotional hangover from this usually lasts a few days.

But it didn't turn out that way. I was bored as hell, I didn't do a lot of talking -- but the self-confidence I've developed over the last year or so seems to have had an effect on me. I got out of there with my mood no worse than it was when I came in. Nice progress, oafboy. Keep it up.

And the food I brought seemed to go over quite well. It was a strata, a dish I think of as a savory bread pudding. Usually I use it as a vehicle for leftovers. Since it has dairy in it, the missus hadn't eaten any until this Christmas. (Dairy is one of her innumerable imaginary allergies. She's got personal definition of 'allergy' that doesn't have much to do with the medical condition.) I'd brought one to the celebrations at my sisters and it was the hit of the season and she's been fixated on it ever since.

So when the missus's older daughter commanded her to make a contribution to the party, she decided that her contribution was going to be having me pay for and make the damned strata. It wound using sixteen eggs, a very nice sourdough baguette, a half-pint each of heavy cream and milk, fresh sage, fresh ground pepper, shallots, roast red and yellow peppers, cauliflower, brocolinni, garlic, mustard powder, bacon, ham, breakfast sausage, Canadian white cheddar, Swiss Gruyere, and shiitaki and crimini mushrooms.

Everything that could be sauteed first was sauteed first so I could make use of the fond. (For those not in the know, the carmalized crispy bits that form a sort of crust in a cooking pan are called the fond. It is the mother and father of flavors. Go google Maillard reaction and prepare to have your world rocked, you ignorant scullion.) All the dry ingredients were mixed in a bowl, dumped in a pan, covered with the custard, and left overnight so the bread could totally absorb the custard.

Then yesterday part-way through the cooking process a little voice in my head said that this dish wasn't going to be worth a shit without a crispy cheesy crust, so I mixed up some cracker crumbs with some more aged chedder, some fresh-grated parmagianno reggianno, and a bit of havarti to make the whole thing melt together, then laid the resulting gratin down on top of my symphony of pork.

When someone at the party asked me what was in it I cut to the chase and said it was death on a plate.

I'm of the opinion that if food doesn't elicit little involuntary noises of pleasure it isn't worth eating. This is probably why the missus puts up with me.

Anyway, I got two good moments of abject pleasure from the whole debacle. One was when the missus was at the computer going over snapshots and she made a squeal indicative of hysteria. She called me over to look at the family photo. Since most of them are either Ashkenazi Jews, Phillipino, southern Italian, or some mix of the above they are a thumb-sized people. As result, the photo made me look like Gulliver in Lilliputia.

The second occured when the missus was complaining that her younger daughter was bullying her the same way her older daughter did. She did not appreciate my pointing out that they'd gotten that trait from her. She liked it even less when I started giving a point-by-point lecture on how she does the exact same thing to me but the evidence I presented was both detailed and overwhelming. A good overwhelming every once in a while is good for her, though. It's also kind of fun.

But the real reason I'm feeling as if I'm back on track is that I've gotten back to work on the novel. I've revised the single most problematic area, the start of the thing. I've clarified the lead character's mental illness and if what I've done works, the result is that his motivation -- what he thinks he wants and what the reader knows he needs -- is a hell of a lot clearer. I've also layered in a bit more backstory so hopefully he won't seem as mysterious/confusing.

And by rigorously getting rid of everything that isn't absolutely necessary I was able to combine the second and third chapters into one much shorter chapter.

The result is a much more direct narrative flow, but the emotional tone is a hell of a lot grimmer and much of the humor wound up being cut. I may need to go back and see if there's any way to funny it up. I've submitted it to both of my writer's groups and am now on tenterhooks waiting for reactions.

So today I'm going to at least start, and hopefully finish, going over the whole manuscript with multicolored hi-lighters and Post-it notes and so on, getting all the continuity lined up, figuring out where to beef up the protagonist's crazy, figuring out what foreshadowing is there and shouldn't be vs. the foreshadowing that should be there and isn't.

I'm really anxious to start my search for an agent.

And I'm gonna spend some time with my brother-in-law this evening. In an expression of her newfound concern for my emotional state, the missus made me promise to find some company while she was gone and I haven't seen ol' Aubrey in way too long. So when I get to quitting time I'm going to walk up to Telegraph and hang out with him during the last hour or so of his T-shirt sales, then who knows what'll happen. I'm gonna prep some pizza ingredients in advance (I'm thinking a bacon/gorgonzola pizza with buffalo mozerella and an herb & ricotta mix instead of tomato sauce) in case he's into coming here for dinner.

Heh. I may be a miserable bastard, but when I can get myself to eat at least I eat well.

Further Conversations With The Missus

Of course it's not as if she never gets the better of me... Here's a sample from the day thus far.

Conversation the First
(In the dark, at five in the morning, after a night of insomnia.)

The Oaf: The thing is that it set off my obsessiveness. It's like the time my buddy and I mixed it up when he said that rotation is gravity.

The Missus: Well, there is a type of rotation that is gravity. It's called Coriolis Force or something.

The Oaf (grits teeth): You mean Centrifugal Force. That isn't gravity at all. It's constrained inertia. Under some circumstances it can mimic gravity...

The Missus: I think your friend was probably right. It makes sense to me.

The Oaf: No, gravity is a basic force. What you're talking about is just --

The Missus: Yeah, I think rotation is gravity.

The Oaf (briefly contemplates getting up and fetching a string and a bucket and some paper and colored pens with which to draw diagrams): Whatever.

Conversation the Second
(In the kitchen, as the dogs lick out plastic containers previously holding stock.)

The Oaf (In reference to Amanda, the Australian sheepdog.): I wish she wasn't getting deaf. I hate having to fetch her.

The Missus: Well, the next time you call her try thinking her name really loud.

The Oaf (Gives a look of cold loathing.): ...

The Missus: She's telepathic.

The Oaf: ...

The Missus: Shut up. I know it's woo. Just do it.

Conversation the Third
(In the parking lot at Berkeley Bowl.)

The Oaf: Man, the sight of that old guy gave me the willies.

The Missus: Which one, the one in the walker or the one in the wheelchair?

The Oaf: The one in the wheelchair. The way my back's going I've got to wonder if I'm gonna be in one of those when I'm that age.

The Missus: You won't live to be that old. You're going to die when you're sixty.

The Oaf: What the fuck?

The Missus: You're going to die when you're sixty and I'm going to die when I'm eighty. We'll die at the same time.

The Oaf: Telling someone they're going to die when they're sixty is no way to make them feel any better.

The Missus: Maybe I'm not trying to make you feel better. (Locks eyes with oaf and delivers a fiery gaze as her hair coils around her face, Medusa-fashion.) Maybe I'm just torturing you.

Today's Final score:

The Oaf: 0
The Missus: 3