When Thunder Dies

Some events hit you harder than you realize they will. The death of Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins is one such event. It's been days and I haven't stopped thinking about it yet.

Fortunately, this isn't a situation where I'm relating Taylor to myself. True, he was only 50, only about 5 years older than me. Of course, he'd lived a harder rocking life than me. This isn't judgement, but I know he'd had trouble with drugs in the past. Not sure yet if that was the situation here, but I know it messes with your heart. No, I'm not contemplating mortality.

More than anything, I'm thinking about the music, and the performance. I've been lucky enough to sew Foo Fighters twice. It's where I got this very cool t-shirt.

When you'd see the Foos, often you knew that Dave Grohl had been Nirvana's drummer. A lot of folks even know that he played all the instruments on the first album. Nerds like me love telling those who didn't know. And that he'd been deciding between joining Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers before going out on this crazy adventure. 

During a Foo Fighters show, Dave gets on the kit, and quickly reminds you that this isn't a "Phil Collins became the frontman" situation. That's nothing against Phil, who I actually like. It's more that this band has (or had) two hall of fame drummers, veritable rock gods! It's as if you had Ginger Baker also playing rhythm guitar for The Who, and able to swap out with Keith Moon here and there!

Taylor was this amazing performer, who would get up and sing. He wouldn't just sing, though. Taylor would suddenly embody Freddie Mercury. He absolutely was a superior singer, and Dave would easily agree.

Part of what gets me is knowing that I'm losing this aspect of Foo Fighters. Taylor wasn't just a superlative drummer. He had this infectious enthusiasm during shows and interviews that, as a fan, you couldn't help but catch. There was that smile that always felt like he was letting you in on the joke, and maybe even the entire band wasn't in on it... you, the fan, you were.

I remember my dad talking to me about The Who after Moon died. Kenney Jones isn't a bad drummer; however, you can just hear the difference in the songs when he joined the band. It just feels different. 

I sincerely hope that Dave Grohl will continue on. Things are, I hope, different than they were when Cobain passed. He's older, more able to handle the death of man who didn't just look like his little brother, but who Dave acted as if truly was his blood.

Eventually, with luck, my daughter will see Foo Fighters one day. This summer, in London, was slated to be her first concert. Now, that's gone. She'll never see Taylor. And while I'm certain the next show will be fantastic, there will be something missing. You don't just replace a guy like that.

RIP Taylor Hawkins. And thank you for the music and the energy, sir.

Not Well Done

Steak is a funny thing. Red meat, in general, has different temperatures you can conceivably cook it to. Unlike pork or chicken, there aren't health risks to a rare steak or burger. There do seem to be some emotional risks, though, for some reason.

There was an episode of King of the Hill, years ago, that covered this.

Now, I don't know that I'd actually ask someone to leave, but it hasn't happened with a steak yet. Over the years, there has been the odd friend or family member who has asked for a well done burger. Toss theirs in first, then get set for the rest of the people. Pull everyone else's burgers off and come back for the last couple later. 

If you're asking for well done, you have to tell me exactly how much you're going to eat. No one else is going to try and swallow one of those hockey pucks. My wife often refers to it as "killing it twice" and that doesn't feel far from accurate. 

Last night, we went to Outback Steakhouse. When we lived in Orange County, especially when Amanda was pregnant, we loved going to Outback. There isn't one that close to us here, so it's been a few years. However I noticed one between my wife's kitchen and home... so we went and filled a long ago craving. 

First off, yes, of course we got the Bloomin Onion. Silly question if you wondered. Violet, lover of steak like no other... got chicken fingers. I know. I, of course, got a nice steak. I asked for medium rare, which is just a good way to eat a steak.

Now, it's been a while since I've eaten out at any steakhouse. COVID changed things enough... steak just isn't a good takeout food. You need to eat it when it's ready. Of course, I forgot that you always order one level above what you wanted. I should have said medium.

This rare steaks comes out. Not how I normally eat a steak, but certainly enjoyable all the same. But half way through the meal, I needed to take Vi to the restroom. 

We're at the age where she really wants to go by herself, so I wait outside the ladies room door (and ask a female to open it so I can yell, "you alright Vi?!?" if I feel she's been there too long. Yeah, I'm sure that's not embarrassing at all. I'm a parent, job well done.)

Speaking of well done, I heard someone at a table nearby ask for their steak well done. My head snapped around just fast enough to see the waitress shudder. She covered it well, but I saw it. She wanted to ask the person to leave. I knew it.

That was my waitress too, and she'd been pretty good last night. When she brought the check, however, I might have added a couple more bucks to the tip because of how she handled the well done steak. No one should be so offended in their place of work, after all. Hazard pay.

Don't Taco Shame

Please don't be insulted here, but I'm going to show you an image. It's an image that some people will find incredibly offensive.

Yep, that came from the Taco Bell website. Those, my friends, are tacos. And, in my opinion, there is a simple and noble truth: tacos are beautiful in all forms, at least to someone.

We have a taco night at least once a month. During that time, we cook up ground turkey, use a taco seasoning packet or two (sometimes it's a name brand, sometimes it's generic), and put them on our table with tortillas, hard shells, sour cream, diced onions, olives, and other fixings. It's an absolutely wonderful meal.

Sometimes, it's just us. Sometimes we have my inlaws over. And it's entirely possible that someone reading this will request an invite to our next taco night. Maybe we'd even say yes!

My tacos aren't like those awesome street tacos in LA. And they aren't like some of the other cool restaurants that you might pick them up from. We buy from those restaurants sometimes, too. There are some really fantastic places around here that we really, really enjoy. 

But, sometimes, we just feel the need for a Taco Bell night. It's a simple evening of joy, and maybe a little gluttony, but most importantly, tacos. And, make no mistake, these are tacos.

See, I don't believe in taco shaming. Beef, turkey, chicken, pork, fish, beans - dude, tacos can have a lot of fantastic fillings, and I love a lot of them! If they taste good, why do you care where they came from? What good comes from mocking any particular taco vendor if it tastes good?

You know, people love hamburgers. Specifically, so very many people love McDonald's. I've never know anyone to say that a Big Mac isn't a real burger. So why would a Taco Bell taco be anything less?

Simple, it's a perfectly fine taco. Some people are just food snobs, and want to deny themselves to prove that they're cool or something similarly stupid. Damned right I'm being judgemental. If you're going to taco shame, then I'm going to judge. Tacos are delicious all around. Get over yourself and just eat em.

Oui Chef

Yesterday was a really cool day for me.

"Why, Gary? Did your favorite college basketball team win?"

Actually, they did in fact, and made it way too exciting (and frustrating) in the process. But the really cool thing happened over about an hour before! I actually got to cook with my wife, and what we made was pretty damned fantastic!

For anyone who is reading me for the first time, I'm a massive fan boy of Amanda Bloom. Her food is incredible (and not just the pastries). She's also out there, building up this amazing business, and it's why I do the majority of the cooking in our house.

Yesterday, however, she was off. And she got a cool idea. And she invited me to join her, which is pretty neat, because I genuinely like learning from her. Not me asking a random question about something I'm making, but legit following instructions to do something I've never done before.

Quick digression. There is a place in town named Side Hustle Bread Company. They make artisinal bread, from sour dough to olive loaf, and other fantastic stuff. It's always wonderfully crusty on the outside, but so textured but soft on the inside. Delicious stuff. If you live on Long Island, or know people who do, make it a point to get some of this bread. (317 Main in Farmingdale sells it).

The owner gave my wife a couple of stale Prosciutto Breads to work with. You see, most folks hear "stale bread" and move to throw it out. Amanda knows, however, when it gets a little stale, it's time to make bread pudding. And a savory bread pudding? That means time for a lot of good stuff...

So there I was, dicing onions and mushrooms as Amanda cubed up the breads. We got garlic and red pepper into the mix, and she sautéed it. That smell... garlic and onions cooking together, it's hard to beat!

We actually made two (one for us, one for the owner). Chef (yeah I said it) saved half that onion/garlic/mushroom/pepper mix for me, and did some stuff, then got the oven preheated. My turn.

I'm cracking eggs! (More than a dozen) I'm whisking in milk! I'm combining my half of the cubed bread together with this egg mixture and all the joyful goodness of the sautéed veggies, and twisting in black pepper grinds, and sprinkling salt like they do on TV. And every step of the way, there she is, guiding me, patiently explaining, and smiling because I'm getting it.

Then, after sitting for a while to soak and absorb, it goes into the oven for a while, with the one she made. When it came out, it looked like this:

She decided that the one we'd have for dinner was the one that I had made. Very cool that she trusted me more than I trusted me, but a good teacher knows things, right? So we cut it up, and dished it out for dinner.

Holy cow and all other things holy!

It was good. No, seriously, not only didn't I screw it up, it was good! Harken back a few paragraphs and you'll see where I mentioned how good Side Hustle is. Well, the Prosciutto Bread is easily the tastiest thing he makes. My wife had to specifically say, even after telling me she got a pair of stale loaves, not to eat it. Because I'd have devoured one quickly.

Well, all that goodness came through. That egg mixture, which she also had me add some spices to, soaked into every crevice, and the bread pudding was moist and soft. On top, she'd had me spread a bunch of grated parmesan cheese, so it had that nutty overtone that I (and probably you) love. And having the Prosciutto baked with all of the extra mushrooms, garlic and onions? Flavor explosion sounds like something Guy Fierri would use, but I'm swiping it now.

I can't even think of the last time we got to really cook together. Maybe not since we made empanadas for our friends' engagement party. That was years ago. This was so much fun. And so delicious. I can't wait for her next day off!!!

I Now Own A White Shirt

There is a strong chance that, if my father ever reads this post, the title alone will make him say, "oh no!" Quite possibly, he'll say it out loud. Might even turn to my mother and show her the title. 

But, no, it's legit. We were shopping for clothes for Vi, kind of for the first time for real since the pandemic started. At some outlets, I noticed a Vineyard Vines, which I know Amanda not only likes, but looks really good in. It's been a while since we got her new stuff, too. And while we were in there, I saw, and purchased.... this:

I still don't know who reads this, but it's possible someone has no idea why this relates at all to my overarching subject. Family? Food? Music?

Alright, maybe not that last one (although none of my concert tshirts are ever white). My parents learned fairly early on not to buy me white tshirts as a kid. So, there's the family part. But.... Food. Heh. I could picture a bunch of people who know me just sort of smirking.

Look, I eat. For most of my life, I've eaten a lot. And, until very recently, I've eaten fast. Sometimes really fast. So, why's that matter?

Let's start by considering some of the stuff I love. Pasta with a tomato based sauce, pizza, hot dogs and hamburgers with mustard or BBQ Sauce, chicken with BBQ Sauce, and a lot of other things... with sauces.

You know how babies wear bibs, even when they've gotten the eating thing down pretty well, because you never know if something is going to drop? And how, the messier the meal, the more likely one thing drops, but makes a huge mess?

So... I don't wear a bib. And some of my darker tshirts have some oil stains on them. From a lot of different foods. When I least expect it.

On a dark shirt, you can kind of get past it. Or at least, I can convince myself that it's not time to throw that one out yet. Dark covers. On a white shirt, that just doesn't work. And, oh boy have I destroyed some favorite shirts. After a while, white only existed in my closet for basketball (we played white and colors, so I'd toss a jersey over a white shirt, making it easy if I had to swap as we switched around teams).

You know, I only own one white dress shirt, which I wore for my wedding (and barely ate)... and maybe my niece's Bat Mitzvah. And now I own a white tshirt, which I actually need for a family photo. So, you won't see me wearing that shirt until then. And it also means breakfast for dinner - Amanda said she's making pancakes - is totally fine (and might be the last time I ever wear my Batman tshirt... nah, it's dark, I can hide syrup stains).

Omelets Frustrate Me

While I'm not an excellent cook, for the most part, I'm consistent. Once I get the hang of something, I've got it, and while I may get incrementally better over time, the changes are almost imperceptible. 

This is how it worked with my dad's eggs (which were my grandma's eggs). Once I learned to make scrambled eggs his way - until the last drop of moisture is gone - I had it. Grandpa Howie Eggs are the only eggs Vi will eat (when she's willing to eat eggs, that is).

Now, the two things I've made the longest are pasta and eggs. And normal eggs I'm good at. But, boy oh boy do I love a good omelet. I just wish I could make one.

I'll freely admit that my knife skills lack a certain polish, so that could add to it a little. But the "when" seems to be what trips me up. What do I mean when?

Okay... I've sautéed the veggies (today it was spinach and broccoli... it's St Patrick's Day after all). Now, I've seen multiple methods for the eggs, and tried them all.

Today I cooked the veg, pulled them, then got the eggs half cooked and put the veggies back on. Moments later this got cheese, and I folded it over. It was...eh.

Often, I'll pour the egg mixture in right on top of, and around, the veggies. Sometimes I toss the cheese into the eggs sometimes after. I've seen the eggs cooked completely, then veggies and cheese tossed in the middle for the fold, with cheese melting from the carry over heat (I didn't like that one, it tasted weird).

One of these days, I'm going to watch an episode of a cooking show, or find the right YouTube video, or just get Dad to sit in the kitchen with me and guide me through it. Until then... I might be better off with someone else making my omelets. Can't win em all.

Bacon is Complicated

 Depending on who is reading this, I might be about to offend you. Deep breath. Alright. Bacon isn't that big of a deal to me. I know, blaspheme, right? But, since bacon is most definitely not kosher, I never grew up with it. In fact, with the exception of one small "accident" I didn't even have it until I was probably in my 20s. (And, funny enough, I didn't even know what I'd had when I accidentally got it)

So, here's the brief story on my accidental bacon. Senior year of high school, my band headed to Virginia Beach for a competition. (I may not have been cool, literally ever, but I was a damned good trombone player. That's right, I played all the way until mid-college, and I was pretty spectacular, and only stopped because of an overly-dramatic argument with the director). Digressing... my cousin Scott decided to chaperone us. (Other side note: not sure if I've ever fully thanked him for that. It was not an overall fun time for him, but he did it for his little cousin. He's an incredible man, and I'm thankful).

Alright, new paragraph, because we need to get to the bacon. Leaving around 5am, we stopped at a highway rest stop later, probably at a McDonald's or some such, to grab food. Everyone off the bus, a ton of kids ordering, and my big cousin being cool enough to grab sandwiches for us. Except, when I took a bite of mine, something was wrong. "Uh, Scott, I think this one's eggs are spoiled." Couldn't think of any other reason that someone could screw up an egg and cheese sandwich. When I showed him, he figured it out immediately, said, "here, take mine, I'll take that one, don't worry," and I was none-the-wiser that I just had a bite of bacon.

In hindsight, I can't figure out if he actually liked bacon at the time, or he was more worried about telling my mom that he'd let me have bacon. Don't worry Scott, if you're reading this, mom probably won't read this, and Dad probably won't tell her, if he does.

So let's make like Marty and Doc, and get back to the future (or, more accurately, the present). Take a look at this image:

For most folks I know, that's salivary glands engaged full on! I mean, check that out, you've got a waffle, with a fried egg, and some crispy, nicely cook bacon. You can just smell it, right? I mean, you know the smell, and you remember what that texture feels like on your tongue when you place a piece of bacon in your mouth, right? You're feeling it, right?!

So, uh, I'm not. Like I said, bacon isn't that big of a deal to me. Don't get me wrong (he says, about to ensure everyone reading this turns on me), I love pork products. Most of the sausage that goes into my smoker is pork. I've smoked pork butt, and eaten a lot of pulled pork sandwiches, and I find a roasted ham to have that absolutely outstanding salty flavor that satisfies so many cravings all at once. (We'll talk about Steve and Kim another day; for all I know, she's still feeling guilty).

Bacon, to me, has a weird texture. Seriously, I just don't like how it feels when I eat it. The smell is absolutely fantastic, and I like the flavor when it's on something else. There's a place in Chester, NY called Christopher's where I used to eat all the time. Chris did a bacon wrapped scallop (and damn if I don't love scallops). What I'd do was cut the bacon off, push it to the side, and just eat the tremendously bacon flavored scallops. And what a great taste it is! Just... you know... that texture. 

My wife introduced me to turkey bacon, and we tend to keep a pretty steady stock in the house. That's what my daughter eats, to the point where, if we're out, and we need to make sure she's got protein with her meal, and they don't have the turkey variety, we call it that anyway. And I definitely eat it. Preferably crispy. Limp, chewy turkey bacon is kind of gross. Turkey bacon has a more subtle flavor than regular bacon, but it gets the job done on taste. For me, the texture is perfect. Instead of feeling greasy, and oddly bumpy texture (turkey bacon, by default, cooks out flat in the pan, and stays flat, no curling), the turkey variety is almost like a flattened meat stick. It's simple, crispy, salty, a flavor that fills your entire mouth, without a weird tongue touch.

So, yeah, bacon is a bit complicated for me. And for those who are finishing this last paragraph either through a haze of fury, or the blur of tears at the horrible loss they feel for me, hey, I'm sorry.