Suck It Up

I have to go to Michigan and give a violin concert.  10 years ago, flush with money made on the road with the National Tour of Cabaret and engaged to Nicole I decided to donate a thousand dollars to a new school for strings that was opening in my home town of Port Huron, Michigan.   The idea was put forward by my mother that we take the money to set up a foundation and get others to donate money as well and we could support students in need in the area where I grew up in Michigan.  We could help them get money to study the violin.  Because, as I remember, it isn't cheap.  

We would call the foundation The Drew McVety Heartstrings Fund and I would give a concert at the community college as a fundraiser.   I had been playing a lot on the road.  A lot.  I had committed the entire Bach D Minor Partita to memory and planned to perform that baby live on the crucifix of a stage at the St. Clair County Community College Fine Arts Auditorium.   I did.   It went pretty darn well.   We raised a lot of money for the fund.  Heartstrings helps kids get violins and violin lessons in Port Huron Michigan to this day.

And it is a difference.  There was no School for Strings when I grew up.  There was no string program in the schools.  I studied in Canada across the river.  In Sarnia, Ontario, London, Ontario and Toronto.  That's where the violin lived.   So now that the school is in Port Huron, let's help keep it there I say.

My mother runs the whole thing, I'm really just a figure head.  My brother is on the board as are several devoted and loyal folks.   It's really quite wonderful.

I have since given two more concerts when funds start running low in the Fund and at the end of August it's time for another one.

When  I think about the 10 year ago Drew, flush for the first time in his life, student loans paid off, money in the bank, money in the stock market, living it up in Brooklyn, marrying a BABE, playing the D Minor Partita, letting the ego swell with the fantasy of going back home and doing it for the kids, mythologizing himself right in front of your very eyes; when I think of that not so and yet far away Drew, I am tempted to be jealous of him.

But you know what?  That's just too easy.  It just doesn't work that way, and the sooner I figure that out, the sooner I'm going have some deeper, happier, day to days.

   So, I have to get ready for this violin concert right?  I haven't had a violin gig in a while and frankly I'm a little rusty.  Ain't gonna be pullin no Partita out of my bottom this time.  So I go over to my neighbor Pete's house to drink and play foosball with the guys.  I have several and tell Pete my troubles.  He's got some good advice.  "Suck it up."  he says.  "Go take your violin and play in the train station."

Pete is a fine painter and makes a buck every now and again by painting portraits of peoples houses.  Not painting houses, but... oh you get it.   Sometimes, he tells me, when times are tough for him, he will go set up his easel on the street and just start painting someone's house until someone asks him about it and he can give out his card... etc.  The painters equivalent of busking.  He sucks it up.  He thinks I should suck it up.

I think about how, every time in this last year I think that I am demeaning myself by a task that I think is "beneath me" I wind up learning and meeting someone who takes my life to a whole new place.  IE Louis Bavaro, the chef to the Italian Ambassador, who has given me extraordinary training this year as his sous chef when I "sucked it up" and approached him about maybe hiring me every now and again.

So, yes I say.  Suck It Up.  Put on your "Suck It up" T Shirt Drew. Make it your mantra.  Suck It Up.

The next day, 96º I take my violin to the train station.  I pick a place.  I figure, "I can practice here, if somebody kicks me out, then away I go."  Better than playing in the basement at home with zero acoustics and 100% humidity.

I play, and it sounds lovely.  Even though there is an industrial size fan no more than fifteen feet away somehow the wave lengths of the violin are not deterred and float above in a very lovely way.  I think, as I sway and play, how being a chamber instrument, your violin is only as good as your chamber... and the better the chamber the better the instrument.  People stop and turn and listen and smile.   A young African American teen drops in the first dollar.   I have to sort of stifle a cry when he does so.

In 1990 or thereabouts, I was awfully broke in New York city and had to raise rent immediately.  I went to Grand Central Station and played.  The first person to drop in a buck was an obviously homeless man.  It is always the last person you would expect who drops the first buck.

In the South Orange train station, I played away.  The policeman who had been checking the meters out on the street poked in his head and walked toward me.  "Uh oh.  Here we go."  I thought.

At Grand Central I had found the perfect spot to play.  A little alcove that naturally amplified the instrument so it sounded great just as you were walking up to the 4/5/6 train.  People already had their money out because they were preparing to buy their tokens.  They heard the violin and said, "Nice!" and dropped in a buck or change on the way.  A nun blessed me.  I made $125 in an hour.  A cop came up to me and told me I had to move.  I had to have a permit.   I went to the office and got a permit.  It permitted me to play in a designated location down a long empty hall in Grand Central occupied by no one but drug dealers.  I played a little, they glared at me, I left.

In South Orange, the policeman walked right up to me I kept playing.  He leaned in, looking right in my eyes, I leaned in and kept playing looking right in his eyes.

'What's the name of that piece?  That's lovely."   He said.  I told it was something I wrote for my wife about 10 years ago.  "That's beautiful."  He said and put a buck in my case.  He walked out the other door and gave somebody a ticket.

I played for the next hour or so, trying to figure out what I'm going to play for the concert.  I'm keeping it easy.  Stuff I like to play.  No crucifix this time.  I'm asking every student who receives funds, if they so desire, to play something.   And I'll play a little something, not too much, not too little.  Then we'll have all have some punch and cookies and go home.


So here's the thing 10 year ago Drew... that's right I'm talking to you, : In many ways life has turned out exactly as you expected.   You now have a home and beautiful children.   If you expected that some how it would all be easy and there would be money flowing the way it was then, (and I know you were) well, you were wrong.  Turns out, life kept behaving the way it always did.   Quirky and sometimes downright nasty.  Suck it up.

While I was playing in South Orange,  I watched a woman get off the NY train and head for the exit.  She paused for half a moment listening, and then went out the door.  Moments later she came back, asked if I gave lessons and wrote down her number on a piece of paper.  She wanted me to teach her daughter who plays at the school but hasn't been keeping it up over the summer.  She said, "maybe even twice a week."

Ha!  I think.  Suck it up!  See!   Later I call the woman and explain who I am to her voice mail and leave my info.   I don't hear anything.   A day goes by.  I go to the train station again and play.  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.  It is the woman's number.   I finish the piece and listen to the phone.  In my head I'm thinking how wonderful it is that she called back when I went to the station again.  The holy virtue of Suck It Up is now going to reward me with a little teaching job!   Isn't God clever?   The voice on the other end is the woman apologizing for not getting back to me quicker.  She has lost her job and will not be able to hire me.   She is sorry.

I hang up and laugh.   I suck it up and play some more.  I make money while I practice.   About $15 an hour.  Not bad.   I pack up my violin and take it to the market.   I buy some food for my family and I go home and make them dinner.

CITRUS CARAMELIZED TILAPIA WITH BACON AND BALSAMIC WILTED BEET SPROUTS, QUICK BRAISED BABY TURNIP GREENS, AND MUSHROOM SAGE FRIED RICE

TILAPIA

4 Tilapia filets
salt and pepper
flour for dredging
juice of one orange
1 tsp red pepper flakes
1 Tbs. white wine vinegar
1 Tbs. sugar
2 Tbs. Olive Oil
2 Tbs. butter

Cut each fillet down center line into two pieces.  Season both sides of filets with salt and pepper.  Dredge lightly in flour until entire fillet is covered.  In a bowl, combine the orange juice, red pepper flakes, vinegar and sugar.

Heat Saute pan over high heat until very hot.  Add oil and butter.  When butter is fully melted and oil very hot add tilapia fillet and let brown fully on one side.  When brown, flip fillet let cook for 2 minutes and then add juice mixture.   Allow juice mixture to reduce to about half, spooning sauce on fillet.
When fillet is dark brown on second side serve immediately.

BACON AND BALSAMIC WILTED BEET SPROUTS
1 bunch Beet Sprouts  (I don't know where you would get these, I pulled them out of my garden when I was thinning my beets.)
2 strips bacon
1 clove garlic minced
2 Tbs. balsamic vinegar
1 Tbs sugar.

Clean sprouts and dry them in spinner or paper towels.  Fry Bacon until very crisp.  Remove bacon to paper towel and break into small bits.  Add Garlic to bacon fat and saute for 30 seconds, add vinegar and sugar and reduce for 1 minute.  Take off heat.  Pour onto sprouts in a bowl, toss and serve.

QUICK BRAISED BABY TURNIP GREENS

1 bunch baby turnip greens ( again, I got these in the garden while thinning.)
Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper
Water

Heat saute pan until very hot.  Add oil.  When oil is very hot add greens.  Saute until completely wilted and changed in color.  About a minute and a half.  Add salt and pepper and stir until fully seasoned.  Add 1/4 to 1/2 cup of water and cover.  Reduce heat and braise for 10 to 15 minutes or to taste.

MUSHROOM SAGE FRIED BROWN RICE

1 cup brown rice
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 cups chicken stock
salt and pepper

1 Tbs. vegetable oil
1 egg
1/2 red onion finely chopped
1/2 red pepper finely chopped
1 rib celery finely chopped

1 Tbs. olive oil
5 ounces slice mushroom of choice
Couple of shakes of soy sauce
8 sage leaves

In a small pot heat the olive oil until very hot.  Add the rice and toast, stirring for 2 to 3 minutes until aroma fills the kitchen.  Add the chicken stock and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to low and cover 45 to 50 minutes.   Remove from heat and let cool.

In a wok, heat the vegetable oil to very hot.  Bet the egg in a bowl and then add to oil.  When firm on one side, flip.  When cooked through, remove and cut into thin strips.

Add a little more oil to the wok and add onion, pepper and celery.   Cook on high heat for 5 to 7 minutes  and set aside.

In a saute pan, heat olive oil until very hot.  Add the mushrooms taking care that each slice is positioned on the bottom of the pan so it receives a good browning.  Saute for 4 to 5 minutes or until brown.  Flip mushrooms and add sage.  When sage crumples from heat add soy sauce and toss in saute pan.  Remove from heat and set aside.

Heat vegetable oil in Wok until very hot and add rice.  Make sure that rice is cooked thoroughly in oil then add egg,  and the onion, pepper, and celery mixture.  Toss until heated through.   Add sprinkle or two of soy sauce.

When serving, mound fried rice and top with mushroom sage mixture.

Soba ring

Have been putting off writing another of these, because in my mind, in my projection, in my conception of the overall arc of these collective pieces, it is time, high time, past time for the turn in the story line.  It's time, high time, past time for the fortunate twist, the unforeseen stroke of providence, the kiss of hidden kismet.   I want to write that installment.  I wish I could.  I can't.  And yet... I have to write.   That's the deal.

    We're entering the murky world of missed mortgage payments and falling credit ratings.  I'm writing this from the South Orange library.  I have an hour before I pick up Duncan from his day summer camp.  Back in May, when we had a couple of hundred bucks, we plunked it down for his day camp before we thought about it too much.   He needs the activity and socialization and we need the time with him out of the house so that we can get some things done without having to find an activity for him, so the four hours a day are as much for us as for him.    

    We have run out of surprise tax reprieves and generous relatives and friends.   I have had several auditions.... nothing.  I have now not had a steady theater gig for a year.  The longest I've gone since, oh... 1995.  When I let myself wonder, I wonder WTF, in the vernacular of the day.  WTF?   I say.  WTF?   Is it me?  Is it them?  Was I just lucky all those years?  Did I have some sort of something that has since disappeared?  Is it something I can remanufacture?  Can anyone tell me?  

     I pick up some sous cheffing jobs and collect a few residual checks every now and then.  In the world of the self motivated recreation of my middle aged self as a secret restauranteur, children's book writer, TV show producer, and Broadway Musical writer, there has been much to be joyful about.  Each one of these ventures has found it's own particular angel who has blessed the validity of each distinct scheme and pledged to join me in the cause of bringing about it's fruition.  Can one of them hit in time to save us from losing our home?  Maybe.  Snot likely.

     In the day to day, thanks to my wife and her teaching, I know that when I begin to dip into a place of worry that I have the ability to stop.  That worrying never did nobody one bit of good.  I can choose to worry or not.   Didn't used to be able to to do that.... now I can.    When I'm conscious.  The worst is when I wake from sleep and am in the night panic that has taken me when I am not conscious.  When I drift into the river of panic while asleep and it shoves me awake.  That is the worst.   Happened one night in Missouri.  Again it was Nicole who calmed me down.  

    Shaw is crawling.  

    I know that I can find a way to question the whole thing.  I can find a way to realize that the whole complex that led me to a conclusion that The American Dream (happiness) equals Home Ownership, is a flawed and base system that would have me conscript myself to a particularly perverse formula whereby I would pay more than twice the price of the house that I am buying through a conveniently disorienting mortgage scheme that only benefits a corrupt banking system that would make the mafia blush.   But the fact is, if I could afford it, I would say, "Oh well, what you gonna do?"   It's only because it looks like I'm not going to be able to find a way to survive it that I bother to thoroughly excoriate the system's unfairness.

    We somehow find a way to keep getting food on the table.  And that is what this particular space has always been about.  The garden is the best it ever has been.  Tomatoes are just around the corner and beautiful.  

    I am very, very weary of all of this.   Weary of social calls where I can't really talk about how crappy everything is.  

    Of course, I just re read Angela's Ashes, and I know that things could be a lot worse.  In fact, our crisis isn't about the terrible current reality, it's about fear of losing what we have, and therefore, when I can realize that the day to day is still somehow, kind of beautiful, in fact incredibly beautiful.... of course that is the challenge... this is my lesson.    

I run about three miles every morning after I get up.   Then I sit cross legged in the back yard for fifteen minutes and listen with my eyes closed.  I hear wind and cicadas mostly.   Then I breathe a bit.

Give us THIS DAY.   Somehow, we still have this one.

CHAR GRILLED PORK CHOPS WITH LIME, SOBA NOODLES, SPICY ORANGE SAUCE, AND FOUR BASILS

adapted from Martha Stewart

Everyday Food

1/2 cup kosher salt
juice of 3 limes

1/4 cup fresh orange juice (from 1 orange)
2 tablespoons mirin (rice wine)
1 1/2 teaspoons soy or fish sauce
1 teaspoon rice vinegar
1 1/2 teaspoons minced jalapeno or serrano chile
1/2  teaspoon peeled fresh ginger
4 nice pork chops
coarse salt
8 ounces soba
desired toppings - I used cucumber, red pepper, avocado, radish, scallion, peanut, mint, cinnamon basil, thai basil, Genovese basil, and lemon basil.

Add  1/2 cup kosher salt and juice of 3 limes to two quarts of water.   Soak chops in brine for at least four hours in fridge.

In a bowl combine orange juice, mirin, soy or fishsauce, vinegar, chile, and ginger.   Let flavors combine in fridge for several hours.

Take chops out of brine and allow to come to room temperature.

In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook noodles according to package instructions.  Drain and rinse noodles with cold water.

Grill chops over direct heat charcoal flame, turning once, until interior temperature reaches 155º.   Let rest for 5 minutes.

Serve pork and noodles with desired toppings and sauce.  

Golden Brown

Something's going on around here.

Earlier this week I received a phone call and email from the agent with an appointment for an audition for a play that I did in a workshop 5 years ago. Pretty great part. Play had problems. Now after 5 years, it is getting a legitimate production in a legitimate regional theater with it's eye on Broadway I'm sure. Would I audition? Sure I think. I know they were happy with my work. I know that I enjoyed the role.

I look at the breakdown that my agent has sent me for the audition. I am not auditioning for the role that I had played before. I am now auditioning for that character's father. In those long short five years I have aged from brother to father. Not nearly as great a part.

"Ha!" I said out loud. "That's funny." because it is.

I then spent some time plotting dishes for the proposed underground restaurant that I'm opening with a pal that I'm not telling you about right now, because it's underground. But the plan is great. Several courses, you need to sign a confidentiality agreement, know the password, pay in advance. It's sweet. It's exciting. It consumes me.

Then I spent some time working on the food history children's books that I'm doing with Kid Zenith. The start up boutique publishing house has hit a couple of bumps on the startup and is revising it's business plan. May go straight to app for Ipad, may go up as a pay website... there is a lot in flux, but still moving forward and gathering steam despite the hiccups. Sarah, the publisher and CEO has commissioned me to write two other books for them as well. It consumes me.

Then I spent some time working on the TV food show I'm helping to develop, that I'm not comfortable sharing the details of with you because it's such a great idea. The other creatives and I had a meeting in Central Park the other day that went swimmingly and was frankly exciting. We're raising the dough. Planning to shoot in July or August. It consumes me.

I spent mother's day as a sous chef in Long Island working for Chef Louis Bavaro who just this week began his new gig as private chef to the Italian Ambassador at the U.N. There was a lot of wind the night before and we had no power in the house, and yet we found a way to feed all 21 guest an 8 course meal. We used the gas grill creatively. It was like a Top Chef challenge. I wore the white chef's coat, and a hat. I liked it. There was candlelight.

The folks were very Long Island. The hostess asked me in her very Long Island, "Drew, are you from England?"

"No." I replied. "Just pretentious."

It consumes me.

I have other plans, all about food. All that could easily fly and make something. Maybe make a lot. I really like them. They consume me.

The great thing is, all these things, they bring me a kind of titillation, an almost naughty excitement that I'm cheating on the Theater God. But these are the projects that now occupy my mind . And it is much different than focusing on the phone that isn't vibrating because the theater world isn't calling. That way lay sadness and bitterness. I have a feeling this other way lay bliss. And ultimately maybe a way to enjoy the theater again instead of being pissed at it for not providing in the way I thought it should.

You see, I know that if I got that call and email from the agent a couple of months ago, I would've obsessed about the bad luck and the unfairness of it all, the fear of getting older, the fear of losing everything, the fear and the disappointment, the fear and the disappointment, and the fear and the disappointment.

Instead, I sort of laughed about it, and then forgot about it.

Something's going on around here.

When I was a young man, maybe 7 or 8, I would order American Seeds from the back of Boy's Life magazine. I would sell the seeds around the neighborhood and then return the money to the American seed company who would then send me a prize of my choice. I remember getting a fishing pole one year, and another, flippers and a mask. But I also remember feeling like a self made man. Like an entrepeneur. Like I was going places and knew how to make money.

I haven't felt that way in a long time. I like it.

The thing is, and I'm aware of this especially after losing the last big savior theater job a couple of weeks ago, the longer I go, the more I want one of these crazy schemes of mine to hit more than being saved by my heroin/theater addiction. I crave more power, I have really come to resent not having a real creative voice in the project when hired as the actor. I resent also the blue collar-ness of it... I want to get on the other side of the table. I don't ever want to go through this crisis again.

And one other thing. My food is getting really good.

Consume it.


CHEF BOBO'S FRIED CHICKEN (from his incredible book: Chef Bobo's Good Food Cookbook - buy it on Amazon)

1 2 to 3 pound chicken fryer, cut into 10 pieces
4 cups buttermilk
2 tablespoons fine sea salt
2 tablespoons black pepper
1 tablespoon hot pepper sauce (I used Clancy's from Ann Arbor. AWESOME)
3 cloves garlic, smashed
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon chili powder
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin.
Canola or safflower oil

1. Wash chicken. Pat dry with paper towels. For marinade, combine buttermilk, 1 tablespoon of the salt, 1 tablespoon of the pepper, hot pepper sauce, and garlic. Place chicken in a larger container. Pour marinade over chicken. Cover and marinate in refrigerator for 24 hours.

2. In a shallow dish combine flour, the remaining 1 tablespoon salt, the remaining 1 tablespoon pepper, garlic powder, mustard, paprika, chili powder, and cumin. Take a pinch of the flour mixture and taste it - it should be a bit salty and peppery.

3, Drain chicken but do not wipe off. Coat the chicken pieces with the flour mixture. Preheat oven to 350ºF. Place a cooling rack in a large baking sheet or jelly roll pan. Set aside

4. pour oil into a deep heavy pot. The oil should not reach more than halfway up the side of the pot. Heat over high heat to 350ºF. Reduce heat to medium. Place the chicken, one piece at a time, in the hot oil. (Be very careful, as the oil will boil up and you don't want it to overflow.) Fry chicken 3 or 4 pieces at a time, until golden brown. Remove chicken from oil, and place on cooling rack.

5.. Once all the chicken has been fired, transfer the baking sheet or jelly roo pan holding the cooling rack to the oven. (This will help crisp the batter on the chicken and let much of theoil drain from the chicken.) Bake until fully cooked (180ºF), about 20 minutes.

BRAISED GREENS

2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 onion chopped
3 garlic cloves, chopped
2 pounds collard. mustard, or turnip greens thick stems trimmed, leaves coarsely chopped
2 cups chicken broth
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

Melt butter with vegetable oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Ad onion and garlic and saute until tender, about 6 minutes. Add greens and saute until beginning to wilt. Stir in broth; bring to boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer until greens are very tender, stirring occasionally, about 45 minutes. Stir in vinegar. Season with salt and pepper.

CRACK MASHED POTATOES

2 lbs. Red potatoes diced with skins
1 stick butter
Salt and Pepper

Boil the potatoes then drain. Combine with butter and salt and pepper in large bowl. Mash.

TOMATO GRAVY

2 tablespoons pan drippings from fried chicken
1 cup finely diced onion
1 large cloves garlic, finely minced
1 1/2 teaspoons salt, divided
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme (I used 1 tablespoon fresh)
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 pound tomatoes (peeled, seeded, and chopped into 1/3 inch pieces.)
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup heavy cream

Heat the pan drippings in a heavy non reactive skillet and add the diced onion. Saute over medium high heat for 5 minutes, stirring often. Add garlic, 1 teaspoon of the alt, pepper and thyme, and cook for another 5 minutes. sprinkle in the flour and cook, stirring well, for another 2 minutes. Stir in the chopped tomatoes and remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt, and cook 5 minute longer.

Slowly stir in the milk and heavy cream and bring to a simmer. Simmer gently for 5 minutes. Taste carefully for seasoning, adding more salt and freshly ground black pepper as needed. Serve hot.

Sin Tacks

I keep my laptop in the kitchen. It sits on the ledge of a cut out window thing between the dining room and the kitchen. The ledge is over the pastry rolling table. This means my keyboard gets very dirty very easily. I have lost the "s" key and the "w" key. there are only little nubs there where there used to be keys. Lately the laptop is behaving quite well, but when it gets tired, it goes like this: "sssssssssssssssssssssssss

sssssssssssssss", and I can't stop it.

This is the first day in a while that there is nothing slated on my calendar. I had a bit of a panic when I woke this morning trying to remember what it was that I had to do today, and there was nothing.

I am dealing with yet another disappointment from the show biz world. Came close, oh so close on a job that would mean significant income and relief for the next year or more and then informed that I was just too darn young. Funny, I feel older than I have ever have before. But, the folks assured my agent that I was "amazing" and "LOVED" (their caps) and that perhaps some day...

Thing is, and I get these maybe once or twice a year, it was a role that was in my bones. Everything about it was easily accessible; the rhythms, the dialect, the emotion.. all right there, and all right there in the audition which is a very rare thing. I felt that there was no hiding or masking to play this character, every blemish that I possess was perfect and only worked... no sucking in the gut necessary....

Besides all this, it's a great role. Role of a lifetime kind of role. But, as is my fashion, I'm letting it go.

Duncan had a rare afternoon field trip to the zoo and I drove him to school having just found out about this new level of the disappointment mountain. I dropped him off and smiled and waved. When I got back to the car I just sort of stopped and sat for a while. Then I went shopping for dinner.

My friend Maggie, years ago, had a shirt that she got in Little Tokyo in L.A. with a picture of James Dean and the phrase "When I feel Sad, I Go to Driving." The Japanese fascination with the look of the English language resulting in some wonderful syntax.

I was thinking through the day making the risotto and steadily feeling better, a slowly rising barometer, "When I feel Sad, I Go to Cooking."

Later after dinner, Duncan was particularly sad, because we had allowed him to watch a Dora episode and he "really, really, really," wanted to watch another, but was not allowed.

He was having a hard time getting over it. I explained that the best thing you can do when you don't get the things you want in life, because that happens a lot, is move on to something you can do that'll make you feel better.

It took some doing, but eventually Duncan, Nicole and I played a vigorous game of Candy Land. I suspect that our family laughter rose up through the stairwell and gently nestled into Shaw's dreams as she slept.

 GRILLED LEMON PORK CHOP WITH GARLIC AND SAGE

4 Thick Cut Loin Pork Chops with Bone
1/2 cup Kosher salt
Juice of 3 Lemons
2 Tbs. fresh sage leaves, roughly chopped
3 cloves garlic minced
1/4 cup olive oil
Fresh ground black pepper

In large bowl, dissolve salt in two quarts of water. Submerge chops in brine and let sit for four hours.

Combine lemon juice, sage, garlic, olive oil and pepper in bowl and mix thoroughly.

Transfer chops to zip lock bag and combine with marinade. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours.

One hour before grilling, remove chops from fridge and allow to come to room temperature.

Grill over direct heat 4 to 5 minutes per side. Let rest for five minutes before serving.


BROCCOLI RABE

One Bunch Broccoli Rabe, stems trimmed
1/4 cup kosher salt
Ice
Olive oil
3 or 4 Anchovy fillets.
2 cloves sliced garlic
Shredded Pecorino Romano.
Salt and Pepper to taste.

Fill a stock pot with water and bring to a rapid boil. Add the kosher salt to water. Add Broccoli Rabe a little bit at a time so as not to lose boil. Cover and let blanch for 1 or two minutes until vibrant green. Remove broccoli from the water and plunge into bowl filled with ice water let cool completely.

Heat about two tablespoons of olive over med. high heat in a heavy skillet. Add garlic and anchovy and saute until fragrant. Add Broccoli Rabe and move about in skillet so that it gets coated with oil. Saute two to three minutes until Broccoli is heated through. Season with salt and pepper, sprinkle with Pecorino Romano and serve immediately.


ARRANCINNI DI RISO

Adapted from Giada De Laurentis


Vegetable oil, for deep frying
2 large eggs, beaten
2 cups Risotto with Mushrooms and Peas, recipe follows, cooled
1/2 cup grated Pecorino Romano
1 1/2 cups dried bread crumbs
2 ounces mozzarella, in 1/2 inch to 1 inch cubes
Salt

Pour enough oil in a heavy large saucepan to reach the depth of 3 inches. heat the oil over medium heat to 350ºF. Stir the eggs, risotto, Pecorino, and 1/2 cup of the bread crumbs in a large bowl to combine. Place the remaining bread crumbs in a medium bowl. Using about 2 tablespoons of risotto mixture for each, for the risotto mixutre into 3/4 inch diameter balls. Insert I cube of mozzarella into the center of each ball. Roll the balls in the bread crumbs to coat.

Working in batches, add the rice balls to the hot oil and cook until brown and heated through, turning as necessary, about 4 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the rice balls to paper towels to drain. Season with salt. Let rest 2 minutes. Serve hot.

(I preheated the oven to 250º and kept balls in there as they were completed, so that I could time out the rest of the meal. The mozzarella stayed stringy. These were a big hit. As many types of risotto that you can think of will be equal to the variations on this recipe. I'm thinking... jalapeno, seafood..... etc.)

MUSHROOM RISOTTO WITH PEAS

8 cups chicken broth
1/2 ounce dried porcini mushrooms
1/4 cup unsalted butter
2 Tbs. olive oil
2 cups finely chopped onion
10 ounces white or crimini mushrooms, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
2/3 cup dry white wine
3/4 cup frozen peas, thawed
2/3 Parmesan or Romano
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Bring the broth to a simmer in a heavy medium saucepan. Add the porcini mushrooms. Set aside until the mushrooms are tender. About 5 minutes. Keep the broth warm over very low heat.

Melt the butter in a heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Add olive oil. Add the onions and saute until tender, about 8 minutes. Add the white mushrooms and garlic. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the porcini mushrooms to a cutting board. Finely chop the mushrooms and add to the saucepan. Saute until the mushrooms are tender and the juices evaporate, about 5 minutes. Stir in the rice and let it toast for a few minutes. Add the wine; cook until the liquid is absorbed, stirring often, about 2 minutes. Add 1 cup of hot broth; simmer over medium-low heat until the liquid is absorbed, stirring often, about three minutes. Continue to cook until the rice is just tender and the mixture is creamy, adding more broth by cupfuls and stirring often, about 28 minutes (the rice will absorb 6 to 8 cups of broth). Stir in the peas, Mix in the Romano. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

4 Bear Ants

While cooking dinner, I drank a coke too quickly and had terrible bloating gas in my upper abdomen for about twenty minutes. We don't usually have soda in the house, water, juice and milk only. We had ordered chinese the other day and the soda was a bonus. It tasted good. I slammed it.

Nicole was doing schoolwork in the basement, Shaw was in the exer-saucer and shrieking like a pterydactyl, Duncan finished his movie and wanted me to access the special features with the remote ("Dad! Go to the videos!")

Funny how with the raising of the children, you can achieve certain levels of stasis in which one can actually be quite productive, certain luft-pauses when it all works, but then, like the house that is built of the cards, it can all come a crashing on down.

Ten minutes ago, Nicole was studying, I was chopping, Shaw was burbling and Duncan was absorbed. My stomach felt fine then.

Then, Bam! Fluttering lightly yet with violence, down they come!

I said, "Shaw, chill out! Duncan, do it yourself. You're a big boy. You can work the remote." I had serious Dad voice on. With silent inner savagery, I wished Nicole up from the basement.

I lay my spatula down and lay myself down on the kitchen floor on my left side as my cousin Janie told me to do in such times and waited, believing, despite the pain, that this too shall pass.

It did.

We are in special forbearance on our loans, we have modified our mortgage payments somewhat, Nicole is going to grad school on line, we have health insurance through New Jersey Family care, we had enough of a Tax refund to get us through the spring months, we are soldiering on.

Let's have some salmon burgers.

 Modified from Rachel Ray)

1 lb. fresh salmon fillets
2 egg whites, lightly beaten
Handful of parsley leaves, chopped
2 lemons zested and juiced, divided
3 cloves garlic, minced
3/4 cups bread crumbs
Salt and Pepper

4 anchovies, chopped
2 tsp. Dijon mustard
1 Tbs. Worcestershire Sauce
2 Tbs. plus 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil, divided
Two generous handfuls Pecorino Romano
2 hearts of romaine lettuce, shredded
1 head radicchio, shredded

Take salmon fillets and pulse several times in food processor until broken up, but still chunky.
In a large bowl, add salmon, egg whites, the zest and juice of one lemon, 2/3 of the total amount of hopped garlic, the bread crumbs and lots of black pepper and a little salt. Mix together and for 4 large or 8 mini patties.

To a salad bowl add the remaining zet and lemon juice, remaining garlic, chopped anchovies, Dijon mustard, and lettucess to the bowl and tos to coat evenly. Season the slaw with salt to taste.

Heat 2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil in skillet over medium heat. Cook salmon patties 4 minutes each side for large, 2 to 3 minutes for mini.

Serve over slaw as burgers with slaw as garnish.

As A Globed Fruit

TO WHAT PURPOSE APRIL, DO YOU RETURN AGAIN?

We have learned by our third spring on College Place to be sure to close the bedroom window afore the sun rises as the mockingbird who returns each year to perch in our silver elm executes his entire full-throated repertoire like some sort of insane ornithological car alarm as day breaks. And, while I can't help but thrill to our feathered friend's annual homecoming, between the six month old that occasionally calls in the night and the five year old who every now and again needs reassurance that shadows are not demons, every nanosecond of sleep is precious to this soon to be forty five year old.

BEAUTY IS NOT ENOUGH.

In my eighteenth spring, I had a friend who was a guest literature teacher at Interlochen. Norm Wheeler taught a class called Man's Search For Personal Meaning. We read Voltaire, Heller, Camus, etc. He took me and my girlfriend on a double date with his Swedish wife into Traverse City to go see Sophie's Choice. It was a magnificent spring explosion of a day. I had just read "On the Road" for the first time and was seeing Norm as a kind of Neil Cassady. He gestured at the trees as he drove.
"Imagine the actual physical weight of all these leaves that have opened up that weren't here a week ago. The weight of them! It must be thousands of tons! Thousands of tons of actual, tangible, palpable Spring mass that has magically appeared because of light and water!"
I can't remember if his wife spoke English.

YOU CAN NO LONGER QUIET ME WITH THE REDNESS
OF LITTLE LEAVES OPENING STICKILY.

I took out one of our tulips with the lawn mower. It was preparing to open. I didn't actually cut it with the blade of the mower, just rolled it a bit with the wheel. It was enough to lay it flat. I propped it back up with some of last year's mulch and hoped it would suffice.
After I finished cutting the grass and was back in the living room I snuck a look outside to see how the tulip was doing. It was lying flat again.
A little while later, Nicole came in with the tulip and a admonition about being careful with the lawn mower. I confessed all. We vowed to widen the beds so as to prevent further mishap and move on.
I gave the tulip a fresh cut and we put it in a vase. It has perked up and we hope for bloomage. Although Jeanie the cat has taken some late night bites out of it's leaves and puked them up on the stairs.

I KNOW WHAT I KNOW.

I opened the bottom door of the compost bin and loaded compost shovelful by shovelful into the wheelbarrow. Feisty red worms wriggled. I wheeled it to the garden and shoveled the fragrant load of veggie poop over the dirt. I took the rented home depot tiller and worked the compost in, my arms, shoulders and back straining.
Later at the kitchen sink the compost smell wafted through the window and I smiled. I imagined the neighbors turning quickly and asking, "What's that smell?"
I smiled again.

THE SUN IS HOT ON MY NECK AS I OBSERVE
THE SPIKES OF THE CROCUS.

I look up at my house as I finished my run the other day. The paint is peeling badly. The yard looks nice, but the house needs paint. Last Fall I got a letter from the village telling me to paint my house or face a fine. I wrote them back saying times is tough, and was a little indignant because it didn't look that bad. Well, this Spring I have to agree with the village, it does look that bad. I had planned on hiring someone to do it, but looks like it'll be me climbing the ladders and scraping. I need to google "repainting cedar shingled houses." A lot of the shingles need to be replaced. If I peer into the future, I see me cussing and wrestling with a job that grows the more it feeds on. One day the house will be a deep forest green and the pride of the neighborhood.

THE SMELL OF THE EARTH IS GOOD.

Duncan and I put the first early spring crop. We laid out our rows of twine so that the seedlings would have a certain flow. We were very curious about how different the seeds looked from one and other: how different a chard from a lettuce, a lettuce from a green. I realized that if these were the moments that were elongated for eternity and called heaven, I'd be good with that. Me pouring perfectly round, tiny, red collard seeds from the packet into his cupped five year old palm. We planted mustard green, collards, kale, rainbow chard, swiss chard, rhubard chard, spinach, black seeded simpson, broccoli rabe, buttercrunch lettuce, romaine, and salad bowl. Three kinds of beans. We had dirty nails at dinner.

IT IS APPARENT THERE IS NO DEATH.

Erin and Geoff live next door now. They want to put in a vegetable garden in the back. We conferred with them and they have agreed to grow the root vegetables and we will grow the leafy greens and share over the fence. Grace and Gregory used to live there, and Grace had the most beautiful flowers growing where Erin and Geoff are planting root vegetables. We dug up the irises, the fennel bush, the columbine, the peonies and they all came over the fence and live now with us in the flower beds in the front and to the side of the house. We are thrilled. So far, no casualties in the transfer. We like to think that Grace would be happy that we have them.

BUT WHAT DOES THAT SIGNIFY?

Of course, Grace might be very, very sad about the whole thing.

NOT ONLY UNDERGROUND ARE THE BRAINS OF MEN
EATEN BY MAGGOTS.

It's been a tough year. But with children in the house, one must hope. And we're getting a tax refund that'll give us another month or two reprieve.

LIFE IN ITSELF
IS NOTHING,
AN EMPTY CUP, A FLIGHT OF UNCARPETED STAIRS.

I took a train to the city. I signed in my name when I got to the appointed address. I waited with other men in suits. When it was my turn I went in the room. I said my name and performed the tasks for the camera. I had to pretend like I was at a casino having a good time and that the man I was with was my friend. The whole exercise soup to nuts took less then ten minutes. Then I took a train home. I admired the new tulips on the walk up to the front porch. The one that I took out with the lawn mower will hardly be missed.

IT IS NOT ENOUGH THAT YEARLY, DOWN THIS HILL,
APRIL
COMES LIKE AN IDIOT, BABBLING AND STREWING FLOWERS

Maybe not enough, but something.

 Make this for dinner:

(From The New Basics)

SPRING GREEN PASTA

4 cups cold water
1/2 lemon
6 baby artichokes
1/2 pound thin asparagus spears, trimmed, cut into 1-inch pieces
16 oz. orecchiette pasta
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 Tbs. unsalted butter
1/4 cup chopped scallions
2 cloves garlic, slivered
1/2 cup oil-cured black olives, pitted
1/3 cup green peas
4 Tbs. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Salt and Pepper to taste

1. Fill a mixing bowl with the cold water, and squeeze the lemon juice into it. Drop the lemon half into the water as well. Set the bowl aside

2. Using a sharp knife, trim off and discard the top 1/2 inch of each artichoke. Dip the cut tops into the acidulated water (to keep them from turning brown.)

3. Pull the outer leaves off the artichokes, leaving a core of tender green leaves. Gently pry open the artichokes: using a small melon baller, scoop out and discard the chokes.

4. Cut the artichokes vertically into three or four slices, dropping them into the acidulated water as you work.

5. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Drain the artichokes, and add them to the pan. Simmer for 10 minutes. Then drain the artichokes, reserving the cooking liquid, and rinse them under cold water. Set them aside.

6. Bring the reserved artichoke cooking liquid to a boil, and add the asparagus. Simmer for 3 minutes: then drain, again reserving the liquid. Rinse the asparagus under cold water, and set it aside.

7. Bring a large pot of fresh water to a boil. Add the orecchiette, and cook at a rolling boil until just tender.

8. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil and 1 tablespoon of the butter in a saucepan. Saute the scallions and garlic for 3 minutes. Then stir in the olives, peas, reserved artichokes and asparagus, remaining 1 tablespoon butter, 1/3 cup of the reserved cooking liquid, and 3 tablespoons of Parmesan. Stir well, and cook jut until heated through, 2 minutes. Stir in 2 tablespoons of the pasta cooking water, and transfer the sauce to a heated serving bowl.

9. Drain the pasta, and toss it in the bowl with the sauce until well coated. Season with salt, pepper, and the additional 1 tablespoon grated Parmesan. Serve immediately.


SPRING
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers

To Us Be Blessed

I've had an outpouring of messages off of the comment thread. Private messages from friends. Friends who want to help. "What can we do to help?" Asked one of the messages from a friend. There are suggestions of ways to make money writing, suggestions of places to submit writing, suggestions of agencies to contact, suggestions of ways of securing health care for the kids, offers of more catering work, suggestions of ideas toI use my violin skills, teach, etc.

Psst. The reason Santa is so jolly is he gets to be the big giver. Ho.

When I had a birthday in high school up at Interlochen, I got a bit of "fall out" in the cards from my relatives, maybe a total of $30 or $40. I splurged my loot in Traverse City buying gifts for my high school friends. They thought I was generous. I selfishly basked in the light of being benevolent, of providing.

I had a fantasy for a long time of achieving wild, fantastic success and buying my Mother and Step Dad a sailboat named the "Mississippi Hot Dog" (after a well known Suzuki Violin phrase) as a symbol of thanks for all the sacrifice over the many, many years.

I suspect this is the root of all this cooking stuff too.

So, my immediate impulse was to thank friends kindly for help and deny it.

I felt embarrassed that my writing about our life could be interpreted as a call for help. I love it when people respond in comments how they are inspired by us.

"Huh," I thought.

"A tale doesn't have to be one of victory to be inspiring."

I love those comments because if feels like I'm giving something.

Every Sunday evening I find myself praying to some un-named God of Fortune/ God of employment, that this will be the week of reprieve. Even though that Judeo/Christian God and I are on unsteady terms, what with all the confusion about the holy writ interpretations, I figure an earnest prayer to God of Fortune/God of Employment won't cause too much of a ruckus up there in the firmament.

A week and a half ago, the Monday morning after the Sunday prayer, there was an email. It was an email offering help from some old friends who I had fallen out of steady contact with, but who had been reading the posts and offered financial assistance.

My immediate impulse was to thank and deny. Apparently my Fortune God /Employment God didn't quite understand what I meant by "reprieve". I meant EMPLOYMENT in a long running show or something similar in my chosen field that would get us back to making our nut and also allow me to secure a larger income base, such as culinary education or the like. I didn't mean for my friends to offer me money.

"Thanks but no." I wanted to say.

Throughout the day Nicole and I tossed it about. We talked of responsibility to our children, whether we're really ready to pack it up and throw in the towel on this particular dream, whether we're in a position to deny the help (which of course is love) from our friends, (simply because we'd rather be the ones offering), whether we wouldn't be smarter to accept what the God of Fortune offers because maybe there's a design here that we can't see yet.

Who am I to deny others the joy of giving, especially when, whether I like it or not, I have been asking? Maybe part of the issue that has got me to this point is that I haven't accepted the opportunities that have appeared, I've only taken the ones I've wanted. Maybe I've been holding too firmly to try to make the life I've fancied and not accepting the one I've been so generously given.

Maybe.

Humbling. Indeed.

We have accepted the gift. I thank you, my old, still loving friends.

I got a call from the agent. I have been offered a reading. 5 days, $100. Pretty good part. New musical by famous writer.

I got a call from my chef friend Louis. Catering a Seder, I get to sous. 1 day, $200.

The day of catering is one of the days of the reading.

I call the agent. "Is it possible that I could miss one of the days?"

"No."

Now, normally what I would do, and what I have done for the last 20 years, is tell the chef friend sorry, but I'm doing the reading. I would accept the financial loss as an investment in the possibility that doing this reading would lead to more employment and maybe even the role when and if it finally becomes a production.

I have decided to go another way. I turned down the reading. I will put on the chef's coat and cater the Seder.

Dear Friends Who Read These Posts and Care,

I thank you and I love you for every one of your kind and tender offerings. I promise to honor and utilize every one. There is nothing that would bring me greater joy than to turn the corner in this serial story and report the fortunate turn of events that I crave. But I allow that my fortune may not be in the form that I wish it to be, and that by following what is given rather than what I desire, well maybe, just maybe I'll find my bliss.

"Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you, but it is important that you do it,"
said Ghandi.

I think he was talking to me.

Try this recipe.

ROASTED SALMON WITH BEET RISOTTO

BEET RISOTTO

2 Large Beets with Greens
6 cups chicken broth divided
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 Shallots, diced
1 1/2 cups Arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine
Kosher salt to taste
freshly ground black pepper to taste
3 Tbs. finely chopped chives
4 Tbs. butter
1/3 cup grated Parmesan Cheese

Preheat oven to 450º.

Trim beet stems and reserve greens. Scrub beets. Wrap beets together tightly in foil. Roast in middle of oven for an hour or until beets are tender.

Unwrap beets and, when cool enough to handle, slip off skins and discard.

Chop beets into 1/2 dice. Slice greens into 1/4 inch strips.

In a saucepan, warm the broth over low heat.

Heat oil in skillet over medium high heat. Stir in shallots. Cook 1 minute. Add rice, stirring to coat with oil, about two minutes. When rice has taken on a pale, golden color, pour in wine, stirring constantly until the wine is fully absorbed. Add 1/2 cup broth to the rice, and stir until the broth is absorbed. Continue adding broth 1/2 cup at a time, stirring continuously, until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is al dente, about 15 to 20 minutes.

Remove from heat. Stir in Beets, greens, butter, chives and parmesan. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

ROASTED SALMON

4 Salmon Fillets
Olive Oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven to 350º

Place the salmon on a sheet pan, skin side down. Brush with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast for 15 to 20 minutes.

My Pleasure to Serve You

I dropped Duncan off at preschool and am at the library. Nicole is at home with Shaw and deep in some furious house cleaning. Nicole's mom Angela and brother Robert are visiting us in South Orange for the next few days to celebrate Duncan's fifth birthday on the 17th. St. Patrick's boy. Luck of the Irish, sure hope so.

So terrifically hard to wrap my mind around the young man that he has instantly become. All the parenting cliches come to mind. How fast the years go and you turn around and there are these people where babies used to be. Awfully true. He is long and lean, with a penchant for hiding games. He loves to disappear in plain sight. Putting his head up the back of my shirt and staying behind me, directing me to ask, "Where's Duncan?" I'll say, "I'm not sure where he is, I know he was just here and now I just feel this strange lump on my back and some icy cold hands every now and again."

If I get distracted while his head is up the back of my shirt, I'll hear a gentle reminder, "Say, 'Where's Duncan?'". And it will begin again, until I finally 'realize' that he was right here all along. I'll wrestle him to the sofa, much maniacal laughter, and go back to cooking. Soon I'll feel a head up the back of my shirt.

"Say, 'Where's Duncan?'"

In my lesser, more impatient moments I'll say something like, "Dunc look, I'm trying to cook here." He'll say, "Aw," and go to the sofa and read a book. I'll cook.

In my late night worry times, as I'm lying on my side of the bed, holding the radio to my ear and tuning instantly away from any advertisements that mention "foreclosure", I will suddenly see him behind my closed eyes and wince because I don't know what is going to happen with his future, because the ship certainly seems to be sinking awfully fast and he is blissfully unaware with a Dad who is all too aware.

Should I try to get a job at Target? Whole Foods? Home Depot? We're now at the point that these are the questions. No saviour acting job is appearing, in fact the situation only seems to be getting much, much worse.

Over Christmas, before we went to Missouri, I contacted a chef friend of mine, Louis who I had met through the internet. I sent him a message offering my sous services. He wrote back that he might have something the next week.

"Well, that was easy." I thought.

The next day, it was a Saturday, I got a call on my voice mail from Louis saying that the job he had next week had fallen through but I would be getting a call from another man, Jono who needed some help putting together a party the next day on Sunday. He needed someone to serve. Not cook anything, serve.

"Well, now I did it." I thought.

I can't remember what specific show biz disappointment I was reeling from that particular week, but an enormous battle of my internal ego immediately ensued.

I hadn't worked a catering job or a restaurant position since 1997. I had worked in restaurants and catering in New York off and on since I'd moved there and went to NYU in 1983. The story I had created went like this ( you might find it a familiar one): I would work my bottom off in any job I could in New York and take any theater job I could find until I eventually made my way as an actor and left the restaurants, light construction and catering jobs behind only to be resurrected as quaint stories (preferably on talk shows) of salad days employment. I would marvel at how hard I worked then and how it formed my character and enhanced the sweetness my success.

The fact that I had spent 13 years away from such employment made me think, certainly during those "six figure Broadway/tour - let's buy a house!" years, that the story was undeniably true. Because we were living it.

So there I was wandering around mid December South Orange, now several messages on my voice mail asking me to call Jono immediately because he needed to know if I could work the party and me completely unable to return the call and reverse the story that I had clung to since I made the plan on or about 1976.

There was a roaring in my ears. I found myself in that little children's park near the train station. A man in an overcoat walked up to the steel xylophone thingy and produced some mallets. He played a beautiful improvised melody. I returned the call.

There was nothing in my voice that betrayed the emotional distress I was going through.

I said, "Sure I can help you out."

I got the address, asked him what I should wear... etc.

I walked back home. I had something resembling resolve. I hadn't written this part of the life story in my mind, but here we were. The fact that I was taking the job was less painful than the paralysis of not returning the call.

I went and worked the party. I sliced up the ham and arranged the buffet table for Jono and his wife Elizabeth, movie and television producers who owned a brownstone in Brooklyn. I set up the bar and stationed myself behind it when the guests arrived.

At one point, one of the children at the party asked if she could have a soda. I said "Sure."

Then she said, "I want water instead."

I said, "Sure."

"You're the servant," she said,

I said, "Yes I am."

I took a break and locked myself in Jono's bathroom. I looked in the mirror. I remembered when I worked at Blue Water Grill in 1996/97. I was the oldest on the staff then at 31. One of the other waiters affectionately nicknamed me "Papa." I looked at my 44 year old self in the mirror.

I thought about Anthony Hopkins in that movie... I can never remember the title, the "I'm a butler my whole life and even though Emma Thompson loves me, I can't do anything about it" movie... Remains of the Day! Thank you.

I cleaned up after the folks had eaten and drunk their fill, accepted Jono's money and a gift of a bag of leftover meatballs, made my way from Brooklyn back to Penn Station and caught a late train home.

Jono called me to let me know that he had recommended me for another party; a brunch birthday for a friend of his on the upper west side. I was to call Jeffrey.

I called Jeffrey and worked the party. Jeffrey turned out to be Jeffrey Lane the writer/producer who I first met on The Day and Nights of Molly Dodd where I had a recurring role and he was the writer in 1989. I ran into Jeffrey again because he was the book writer of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. We shared cocktails and conversation at the opening party in Los Angeles when I did the tour in 2006/7. And now here I was serving his coffee and arranging his salmon for his guests.

I swept the floor of his kitchen in his magnificent Manhattan 3 bedroom on Riverside drive and did the dishes when the party was over. He gave me some cash and I took the train home.

It hadn't taken long for my worst fear in taking these jobs to materialize. I had hoped to remain exquisitely anonymous during my foray back into private catering, and it was blown on the second job. The business knew. Show business knew.

Late one night Nicole and I talk. Trying to figure out what to do. She's been attempting to find us health insurance. Going to the Medicaid office in Newark with the children in tow and presenting our papers, being told after three three hour visits that she's in the wrong office and directed to the other office, New Jersey Family Care. She starts over again and delays 5 month old Shaw's vaccinations until we can arrange some kind of coverage.

She's also trying to modify our mortgage with the bank, we don't qualify for the federal programs because it's an independent bank not backed by Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac. They do offer some moderate modification and we are in negotiations.

She is exhausted with worry. So am I. We are swollen with it. We talk about it in our bedroom as the kids sleep. It's not just the hours in the welfare office or the endless phone calls to the bank, the fruitless auditions, those are just tasks. It's the worry that we're attaching to those tasks and the fact that we're not taking equal parts joy in the moments around us, that's what's hurting us. We're not welcoming happiness. Not singing enough, dancing enough. We're not taking of what's right in front of us.

We come to the conclusion that if this "crisis" robs us of our happiness we lose. If it's really just about holding on to this overpriced old house, it's just a house and it's not worth it. That there will always be a crisis no matter what the outcome of the present one is and our job is not to "lose it" but to keep inviting the life that is waiting for us to appear. If we were rich, we'd never get to learn this lesson.

Let's find a way to love this terrible time. Then we'll win. And somehow, in a way we can't see right now, that is the lesson to learn. We need to guard our happiness and nurture it furiously for ourselves and the family. Because, for your kids, your life is your lesson.

If not now, when?

Chef Louis called me again. He has an idea for starting an underground restaurant in his house. Would I help by using sous skills and front of house skills?

"Sure, I can help you out!" Because, I have recently relearned, I can.

I noticed the other day when stopping by the Home Depot for a new light switch that they are hiring.


FOR THE CORNMEAL BISCUITS

1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup fine cornmeal
2 tsp. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
6 Tbs. cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
3/4 cup sour cream or plain whole milk yogurt
Milk

FOR THE RATATOUILLE

1 large eggplant (1 1/2 pounds) cut into 1-inch chunks
3 small zucchini (3/4), cut into 3-inch chunks
7 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. kosher salt
3/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3/4 pound Italian sausage, casings removed
1 large onion, cut into i-inch dice
1 red pepper, cored and cut into 1-inch chunks
3 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 1/2 pounds plum tomatoes
4 sprigs thyme
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley or basil

1. For the biscuits: In a bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Using a pastry cutter or fork, cut in the butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Fold in the sour cream. Gently knead mixture until it comes together in a ball, adding a drop or two of milk if necessary. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.

Preheat oven to 450º.

2. For the ratatouille: In a bowl, toss eggplant and zucchini with 5 tablespoons oil, season with 3/4 teaspoon salt and 3/4 teaspoon pepper. Spread vegetables in a single layer on one or two large baking sheets (do not crowd vegetable). Transfer to oven and roast, tossing occasionally, until golden, about 20 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, in a large, deep preferably oven-proof sauté pan, heat 1 tablespoon oil. Crumble sausage into pan and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 7 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer sausage to a paper-towel lined plate.

4. Return pan to medium heat and add remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Stir in the onion, pepper, garlic and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt. Cook until softened, 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes and thyme sprigs; simmer gently until tomatoes are cooked and mixture is stew-like, about 10 minutes. Stir in the sausage, roasted vegetables and parsley. If you are not using an oven-safe pan, transfer mixture to a 2-quart gratin dish or baking pan.

5. Divide biscuit dough into six equal balls. Use your palm to flatten each ball into a 1/2 -inch thick disk. Arrange on top of ratatouille mixture. Brush biscuit lightly with milk.

6. Transfer skillet or pan to oven and cook until biscuit are golden, 25 to 30 minutes. Let cool 10 minutes before serving.

The Kindness of Yeast

I had a couple of appointments in the city earlier in the week; an audition for a new musical up at ART in Cambridge this spring, and a dinner meeting with the publishers of the children's books I'm writing.

Audition was first. I took the train in and arrived at the studio, there was one fellow ahead of me. I organized the four scenes they had asked me to prepare and got my audition book open to the song I would sing. I gave into a pacing/wandering between the studio and drinking fountain while I waited. The fellow went before me. I could hear him through the door. He sang and then read one of the same scenes I was asked to prepare, so I knew we were up for the same role(s). He was shorter than I, rounder, and bald. What is called a "character" actor in the business. Over time it is the slot that I find myself in. On the breakdowns with the audition info that the agency sends me via the emails I often see the words "seeking a character actor to play..."

I heard genial laughter and "thank yous" coming from the room and knew that I was next. The other guy came out with the casting assistant who said, "Drew? Are you ready?" I walked to my laid out materials, gathered them and said "Yes."

How many auditions? Truly. I wonder what the actual number is.

I walk in and there are the two readers facing me off to the side in their chairs. One male, one female. There is the audition accompanist behind the piano. There is a group of three people behind a long table facing me. There is a woman sitting center who I presume is the director, the casting associate, and another man... perhaps the writer?

"Hello," I say and make my way to the accompanist. I put my book in front of her and ask her if she knows the piece, she says she thinks so. I arrange the material for the scenes on the body of the piano for quick retrieval after the song.

I sing the song. I stand in front of the strangers and sing a song. I arrange myself at a slight angle off stage left and sing. At the key change the accompanist who had been doing doing well, doesn't change the key. One corner of my mind says, "c'mon accompanist... you can do it... key change." She does. Another corner of my mind is in the song, telling the story, "acting". This part controls what is being seen. Another corner of my mind is running a kind of narrative like this: "This is too much song for these "roles". The parts I'm auditioning for don't need this much of a song. But dammit, this is a song I sing well. It's difficult, it's complex. I've worked on it for years now and have had successful, fruitful auditions with this song. I sang this song for Stephen Sondheim and got the job." In yet another corner, another mind monitor is hard at work driving the physical work of the song production, "Easy, easy now. Big breath... flat tone and... wait for it.... vibrate. Volume! Breath! More Volume....pull back and.... head voice."

I finish singing the song for the strangers. There is no response. I walk to the piano to retrieve the material for the reading/acting section of the audition.

The woman who I presume is the director asks me what the name of that song was. I tell her. A phase that must easily repeat 12 times in the piece. She says "Ah. Okay let's take a look at 'Yawkey'". Yawkey is a character in one of the four scenes and four characters that I have been asked to prepare. I say, "Great!"

I think, "Shit. Yawkey is the one I like the least, and in my own humble opinion, the one that is written the most poorly. 2 and a half pages of dialog that is colorful "character" dialog, but with nothing much happening, no actual event.

I step back, hold up my sides and begin. The first line is a kind of joke. No response. No response throughout the scene as I read and (death) try harder.

The voice coming out of me doesn't sound like me. I feel fake.

I am done. The woman who I presume is the director says. "Thanks." Which means, "no" and also means "we're done, we're not going to read the other scenes."

I gather things, make eye contact with the accompanist and say "Thanks," which means thank you for not screwing me up too badly, and I leave the room.

I probably spent an hour and a half reading the script for this play. Another hour and a half working on the scenes, differentiating characters. An hour in on the train, an hour back. 1/2 hour waiting in the hall. 9 minutes in the audition room. You do the math.

As I take the elevator down from the studio and emerge on 8th Avenue I have instant post audition regret. I think that as a result of experiencing what didn't work in the scene I now know what would have worked. "If only I'd played the opposite."

No really. What is the number? 23 years in. How many auditions?

I have performance regret for an audition for a job I didn't really want in the first place. Do I really think that the resentment doesn't show? Do I really think that I still have the eye of the tiger? I have the eye of the beaten dog and frankly I wince when someone moves too quickly in the room. Hard to believe I'm going to get a job this way. In fact, sort of ludicrous.

I walk slowly up 8th Avenue. Thirties, Forties, Fifties, to the Lincoln Center area where I have the second appointment. A dinner meeting with book people. I take twenty dollars out of the bank and give it to a bartender at P.J. Clarke's and he gives me a scotch on the rocks. I kill more time until I'm supposed to meet the next group of strangers by walking around the upper West Side. I call Nicole and she fills me in on kid status. She makes me feel better by saying, "Oh well." when I tell her about the audition. And I do. I feel better.

I feel myself steeling a little as it gets close to time to meet the second group of strangers for the day. I'm sitting on a bench on the perimeter of Central Park, and I say "breathe Drew. Let the crap go. Have a little birthday today on me."

I walk to Cafe Fiorellos and meet the book people.

I recognize the first stranger Emily immediately. This stranger, whom I have met only via the internet gives me a glass of champagne, an embrace and says "I'm so excited and happy to meet you." I recognize the other stranger Sarah because she actually looks like she did in high school, and although we didn't hang out, I know her too. Another embrace. The subject of the book arrives, another stranger who I recognize because I have done my research. And the final stranger who is a complete stranger to me arrives, a dinner guest who is an interested party in the product.

(Sorry for being semi vague about this stuff, but as to content of the books I have been advised to be discreet.)

The dinner flies by. Truly the 3 hours seem much much shorter than the nine minutes I spent with the other strangers earlier in the day. We order food. We order wine. The publishers present slick and beautiful materials and outline their goals. The interested party tells his story and explains his interest. I tell my story. The subject of the book to be tells his story. We laugh and the publishers brush away some tears. We talk about how to tell the story. The strangers listen to me and show signs of liking my ideas. I like my ideas. I eat a semi okay thin crust Pepperoni pizza. Emily has a disappointing ragu pasta. Subject has a disappointing broccoli rabe pasta. Sarah and Interested Party share a semi okay Margherita pizza. We finish wine, have some personal talk and make plans for the next step.

The voice coming out of me sounds like me. I feel real.

We leave the restaurant and all walk down Broadway for a bit before we separate with more hugs. There is a true warmth that I take with me as I walk the rest of the way down Broadway and catch my train at Penn Station.

Without giving too much away, the subject's story has much to do with following bliss. I think about that on the train.


here's a better pizza:

The Dough

2 tsp. active dry yeast
1 cup warm (105º to 115º) water
3 cups all purpose flour
1 Tbs. salt
2 tsp. sugar
1/4 cup plus 1 Tbs. Extra Virgin Olive Oil


The Sauce

1 28 oz. can diced San Marzano Tomatoes in juices
1 Tbs. fresh chopped oregano
1 large garlic clove minced
2 Tbs. fresh chopped basil
2 or 3 Tbs. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt to taste

1 lb. fresh mozzarella cut into strips and drained
Fresh basil leaves
drizzle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil

Toppings of choice

In a bowl combine warm water and yeast. In a food processor with dough blade on dough setting combine flour, salt and sugar. Mix thoroughly. Add yeast mixture and olive oil and combine until dough forms into a ball. If dough is too sticky add more flour 1 Tbs. at a time, if too dry add warm water 1 Tbs. at a time.

Remove dough from processor and knead on a floured surface for 5 to 10 minutes. Form into a ball, place in an oiled bowl, cover tightly with plastic wrap and let rise for about an hour or until doubled in size.

Combine tomatoes, oregano, garlic, basil, olive oil and salt in a bowl and marinate for at least an hour.

Preheat oven to 450º

Punch down dough and knead for another 5 to 10 minutes. Divide into two balls, wrap tightly with plastic wrap and let rest for 10 to 20 minutes.

Take one of the dough balls and stretch into desired size pizza round. Then repeat with second dough ball.

Top each pizza with sauce, cheese and desired toppings.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, remove from oven and let rest for 3 minutes before slicing and topping with basil leaves.

Indirect Heat is Still Pretty Hot

A couple of days after the Manhasset experience, I took the train into Manhattan to an upscale hotel just off of Times Square and met with the Masterchef people. We did an on camera interview for about 45 minutes. What was revelatory to me, was how much I had to talk about, and about how all of it was true. The Masterchef blurb in the email said, "Do you love to cook and want to change your life?" I love to cook and frankly I need to change my life so how could I not respond? It was tempting to let it become a "should have /could have" because the odds of getting in are just crazy. These folks went to every region of the country and met with thousands and thousands of people who felt just as "called" as I did. And yet, sometimes you have to buy the magic beans and play the lottery, especially when it pretty much is your only option.

In the hotel room the camera rolled and the casting producer asked me the basics: "Why do you cook?" She asked about my first experiences with food, what is my signature dish, yada, yada. She asked me about my career, my family. I told her about Paul and my kids. I told her how Capra-esque this whole experience seemed to me with cooking itself acting as some sort of Clarence the angel causing me to view what is most important in my life each and every day just in the act of getting food on the table for my family, all the while the Potters of the world getting closer and closer to the front door.

I felt myself getting passionate.

She asked me what it would be like to win this competition. I scoffed. I said I hadn't allowed myself to think or imagine that far ahead; that the rejection ratio inherent in my business has taught me to kind of "stick and move." Not to try to dwell on the "what ifs" when you're up for a big job, because the repetitive stress of the crashes when the jobs inevitably fall through is too tough on the psyche.

I went on about how it is silly to call this show "Masterchef" anyway. The idea that I could go from amateur to master in five weeks is absurd. More scoffing from me.

She said, "Imagine what it would be like to bring home the cash prize on this show. Imagine that you are telling your wife that you won and are bringing her the money."

She had found the button, and she had pressed it.

I was overcome. I was awash in tears. Just the idea of bringing home a big pot of golden bacon and relieving the stress around here for a while did me quite in. I was embarrassed. I tried to breathe through it and respond to the question. I managed "We've been through a lot, and my wife has been pretty wonderful."

As I emerged from the emotion with some laughter I said, "Is there a cash prize? I really hadn't even thought about it."

"There is a sizable prize."

After the interview, the casting producer pressed her card into my hand and said, "I really want you to do this. I would root for you."

And I felt that thing that I hadn't felt in acting auditions for a very long time. When you feel it it's golden. The feeling of, "Oh, I'm the one they're looking for."

Over that weekend we made the home movie that Masterchef required. We did pizzas from scratch with Duncan assisting, Shaw observing from the bouncy seat and Nicole on camera. In my mind ever preparing for let down, I'm thinking "Even if this doesn't happen we'll have this great home movie."

I sent off the movie, food photos, family photos, show photos with the very personal 27 page background check to the address in Southern California and did my best to forget about it. I wrote about the first experience here in this forum.

I received an email saying that I should not write about my Masterchef experience or tell anyone about it as I am still being considered and talking to the press or blogging could jeopardize my chances.

So, they had read my stuff. I took the entry off and let them know that I had.

Another two weeks go by and I get another email. This one telling me I am still be considered and I need to now make arrangements to have certain dates open for a 4 to 6 hour interview/psych test and be prepared to go to California for as long as 5 weeks. The email tells me they should be able to tell me if I am a finalist on Feb. 15.

In the meantime, I'm going to acting auditions and starting to wonder what would happen if I did get Masterchef. Maybe I would get more of that golden feeling. Then it dawns on me. "The greatest thing that could happen to my acting career would be to get the cooking show." Even if I got knocked off after the first week, it would give me some level of D list celebrity cred that seems to be absolutely required to get a part on Broadway these days. And what if I did win? What if I won? Could I instantly become a Masterchef? Would I travel the world and become a food network celebrity and eat and drink and.....

I started to want it.

I started to think, what if I did become a chef? What if I did leave the acting business behind? What if I did something else? Now, you must understand, I have been focused like a laser on making my living in this business for the last 26 years, and never really have entertained the notion of imagining doing something else, not really, not like this. And frankly the idea of doing something else thrilled me no end. The idea of not dragging myself to auditions for pieces I don't really want to do and trying to squeeze myself into some concept of what it is I think the folks who are casting want, the idea of not having to deal with a 96% rejection rate, the constant failure, to have some say over the outcome of my life, these ideas, the newness of them, the almost naughtiness of them made me quite drunk indeed, and I fear/hope might have changed me forever. Because I tell you, the thing that hurts me lately is I don't enjoy the acting enough. I'm mad at the acting for not staying lucrative and I wonder if I could take that onus off of it, if I could love it again someday... I kind of hope so, because I miss loving it. It is, after all, just an art form. My economic problems are not it's fault.

Masterchef folks were not the only ones who read my last piece here. An old friend from high school read it. Sarah Sandback. She read my stuff on Facebook and liked it. Sarah wrote me to tell me she is starting a publishing company called Kid Zenith and asked I be interested in writing children's literature for them. It was the Masterchef piece that she responded to.

I stood at the grill with the chicken. The charcoal smell reminding me of camping and Michigan like it always does. Smells like Dad-hood. I thought, "My life is changing. Whether or not it happens, the Masterchef thing, packing my stuff in the cooler and driving to Manhasset changed my life."

I wrote Sarah back and said, "Oh yes. Oh yes indeed." I submitted some material, they liked it and asked for more. They sent me stipend checks and contracts. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.

I was in Michigan on February 15 when the Masterchef folks were supposed to let me know. They didn't call. I got grumpy.

On the 16th around 5:00 as I was making some pasta for the family (broccoli rabe and sausage) my phone vibrated. I saw it was a southern California number. As I finished laying out the sliced Italian sausage in the saute pan I felt the second vibration indicating that there was a voice message.

I stayed in the moment of not knowing. I allowed myself the thought of "Why would they call if it was no?". I thought that if it is no, I'm glad that I was cooking when they called because yes or no, I'm going to keep cooking.

It was no. The casting manager in Southern California told me that casting and the food judges were very impressed with me but I would not be a finalist on Masterchef. They wished me well and said that had my file now and I would be considered for future seasons.

Back in New Jersey, in the house that we are now considering leaving in a very real way. Trying to squeeze the concept into our upright midwestern thoughts that maybe there is no shame in not meeting a mortgage. Trying to wrap our minds around the concept of foreclosure in a real way. Knowing that if writing and cooking are the future, well we could do that anywhere; it doesn't have to be in the most expensive area of real estate in the world. The Kid Zenith stuff is awesome and points to a kind of future, but does not stop the boat from it's immediate sinking. As far as the acting, I keep thinking about that definition of insanity, "Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome."

I'm cooking differently lately. With more precision, with more purpose. Masterchef changed my life.

BARBEQUE CHICKEN WITH DIJON FRIED RICE

MICHAL SYMON'S BBQ SAUCE
(If I don't have time for this, I use Famous Dave's)

1 Tbs. butter
1 c. chopped red onion
2 Tbs. minced garlic
2 Tbs. mince jalepeno
1/2 c. espresso beans, mashed with the flat side of a knife
4 ounces Worcestershire
4 ounces tomato paste
1 ounce apple cider vinegar
1 ounce balsamic vinegar
1/2 c. packed brown sugar
2 ounces apple cider
4 ounces veal stock
1 Tbs. chile powder
1 tsp. cumin
1 tsp. coriander


Melt butter and sweat onion, garlic and jalepeno. Add the remaining ingredients and cook on very low heat for 1 hour. Strain through a chinois.

BBQ CHICKEN
(I usually use chicken thighs with skin and drum sticks that I buy from Costco)

Put 2 quarts of water in a large non reactive bowl and dissolve 1/2 cup to 3/4 of a cup kosher salt. Put chicken (8 to 10 parts) in the brine and let soak for at least 4 hours.
Remove chicken and pat dry with paper towels.
Place about 30 charcoal briquettes evenly on one side of grill and light.
Take about a 1/2 cup of olive oil and brush on the chicken parts. Grind fresh black pepper over pieces.

Sear chicken in batches over the direct heat side of grill about 2 minutes per side. Should flame a great deal.
When chicken is seared on both sides transfer to the indirect side of grill and brush on BBQ sauce. Cover grill with vents open and cook over indirect heat for twenty minutes. Flip chicken brush on more sauce, cover and grill for 20 minutes more.

Sprinkle with chopped fresh herbs of your choice. (I like chives and basil among others.)

DIJON MUSTARD FRIED RICE

Vegetable oil
1 onion chopped
chopped mixed veggies - ie: broccoli, green peas, carrot, etc.
2 eggs beaten
4 cups cooked sushi rice
2 Tbs. soy sauce
3 Tbs. Dijon Mustard
1/4 cup chopped basil (Thai if you can get it)
1/4 cup chopped scallion
Fresh ground black pepper

Heat oil in a wok over high heat. (1 Tbs. at a time) Saute onion until soft and set aside. Add oil and saute veggies in batches until bright in color and soft and set aside. Add oil and cook eggs until firm remove, dice into 1 inch chunks and set aside. Add oil and heat rice through. Add soy sauce and mustard mix thoroughly. Fold in previously cooked ingredients and basil. Grind pepper over and mix again. Remove to large bowl and top with scallions.