The Carbonara Story

I learned how to cook a few things in college, as most guys do.  I could make a very good spaghetti sauce, and also knew how to stir-fry.  I like cooking, and I'm pretty adventurous with spices.  I also recognize that that kind of cooking is different from "make-some-food-fast-because-we-have-so-many-other-things-to-do-and-we're-already-late", which is more common and a lot less fun.

Here at home I've typically done about 10% of the dinner cooking, if that -- for years I've gotten home too late from work to make dinner in time for everyone.  I always did the kitchen cleanup and the dishes, which isn't a totally fair trade, but it's what I could do.

One dish I did pick up along the way was Spaghetti Carbonara.  I got the recipe from a cookbook, adapted it a little, made it a few times, and it got to be a house favorite -- it's really good, and kinda fun to cook.  Until recently it was the only dish the kids thought I could make.  I'm sure by now I've made it 50 times, but somehow it's never exactly the same twice.

One time early on (Carbonara batch #10?) Rach was on her way home, Kathy and Sheila were coming over, and I was doing my thing in the kitchen, when I saw we were out of crushed garlic -- a key ingredient.  I did find some fresh garlic, which I'd never cooked with before, but I was sure I could figure it out.  The recipe called for one clove, so I took one of the hunks of fresh garlic, opened it up, peeled all the little pieces, crushed them in the garlic press, and mixed it in.  It seemed like a lot, but then maybe the crushed garlic in a jar was more concentrated somehow.

It turns out, of course, that a hunk of garlic is called a "head", and each of those little pieces is a "clove".  Who knew?  I mean, besides everyone else?  So the batch must have had 10-12 cloves in it.  We tried to eat it, but couldn't really get much down.  And even from what we did eat we had that garlic odor coming out our pores for at least a day.  We laughed about it then, and still do.

Your reward for following along is Pat's Excellent Carbonara Recipe -- be careful with the garlic:

Ingredients:

• 1 lb. pasta (I prefer linguine; any will do)
  
• 4 tablespoons olive oil
  
• Salt, pepper
  
• 1 large onion, chopped
  
• 1/2 lb. bacon
  
• 1/2 cup dry white wine
  
• 4 eggs
  
• 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
  
• 1 large clove garlic, crushed
  
• 1 tablespoon chopped basil (fresh is best)
  

1.  Cook and chop the bacon.  Drain the grease from the pan, but no need to clean the pan yet.

2.  Cook the pasta per the "al dente" instructions, with 1 tablespoon olive oil.  Meanwhile...

3.  Heat 3 tablespoons olive oil in the bacon pan, add the chopped onion and fry gently for 4 minutes or so.

4.  Add the chopped bacon and fry for an additional minute or two.

5.  Add the white wine, and boil until most (but not all) of the liquid is gone.  (The onions should be tender but not mushy, having absorbed much of the wine.)  Meanwhile...

6.  Beat the eggs with the cheese, garlic, and basil, and add salt and pepper to taste.  (I use about a tsp. each.)

7.  Drain the cooked pasta and quickly stir in the egg mixture and the bacon/onion mixture so that the heat from the pasta lightly cooks the egg.  Serve immediately.

It may take you a few tries to get the bacon/onion mixture just right, and have it finish exactly when the pasta finishes, ideally.  Let's hear a review from one of you after trying it!

And a future post will tell the "Weed Pesto" story.

Pat

Rock And Roll Part Two

What's Wrong With Kids and Music These Days, a.k.a. The Death of the Album

By Me, A Grumpy Old Man Shaking His Fist in the Air

I mentioned earlier that I'm getting a kick out of seeing the kids enjoy some classic rock via the game Rock Band.  That doesn't obviate the fact that they're missing out on a major pop music form, the album, aided and abetted by the playlists on their iPods.  Just because you can play a bunch of songs in random order doesn't mean you should...

Bands used to make a musical statement with each album -- at least some bands, some of the time.  (Some bands still do, I suppose -- Radiohead comes to mind.)  These hung together thematically, and hearing one song plucked from the album and not in sequence with the other songs seemed...wrong, or at least a little unfulfilling.  Some completely subjective examples:

• Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" captured the band's thoughts on insanity, colored by the fact that founder and former bandmate Syd Barrett was crazy.  The songs flow together beautifully.
• U2's "The Joshua Tree" was a completely new sound for them, and came from their tours of the western U.S. and Central America.
• The Clash's "London Calling" -- I don't know where to start, except that I'll always remember where I was when I first heard it in 1980, thinking "Wow -- what's that?"
• Los Lobos' "Kiko" really showed them branching out from the pure Tex-Mex sound they were known for.
• Almost anything by Bruce Springsteen.  His "Tunnel of Love" is about, well, love, and loss.  His 9/11 album "The Rising" really hangs together as well.
• Ditto for the last 5 Beatles albums or so.

I could go on and on, but I hope that gives you the idea.

And I don't think I'm being inconsistent in citing one of my favorite collections, the complete recordings from Stax Records in Memphis.  This is a 9-CD set, with every single recorded by this label, in order, from 1957-1968.  It's a lot of different artists, but the same Memphis Soul sound throughout -- Sam and Dave, Otis Redding, Booker T and the MG's, etc.  It's all I listened to for a while in the early '90's.

Back to those children of mine: It probably makes sense to just buy a single song from an artist via iTunes if it's the only good song on the album, but then, who cares about an artist like that?  When there's so much else to choose from?  If you do own the whole album, you're missing a lot by shuffling it up with the rest of your music.  I fear that this is a trend, not a phase, and not just my gang, which is why it's worth ranting about.

And don't get me started on the lack of patience/short attention span that causes someone to not even be able to finish a song before switching to the next one...

There -- I feel better.  Now you kids get off of my lawn!

Pat

The Ring

My office had a fun overnight social event this weekend in downtown Chicago -- drinks and dinner on Saturday night, organized to allow some family time on Saturday afternoon and again at Sunday morning brunch.  The kids and I went down in the early afternoon to the Field Museum (it was pretty empty, due to the weather), then checked in to the hotel.  They got to order room service for dinner, and stay in to watch a movie while I went out for our office dinner.

This morning we joined everyone for breakfast, then went up to my old parish, St. Clement's in Lincoln Park, for 11:15am Mass.  I was a little distracted all weekend, I think, as today was my anniversary -- Rach and I were married 17 years ago at St. Clement's, on January 11th, 1992.

Unlike this weekend, that one was crisp and clear, about the best weather you can hope for from Chicago in January.  After the Saturday afternoon wedding we had our reception at Cairo, a funky bar/restaurant on Wells (no longer in business), and wound up that evening still in full wedding regalia at the Burwood Tap, still very much in business.  The next day it was off to the Turks and Caicos Islands in the Caribbean, while a snowstorm hit Chicago -- that's one treat to having a January wedding...

Something I'm sure people have wondered, but no one has asked, is: How long is Pat going to keep wearing his wedding ring?  I've been thinking about this for a little while myself.  What does it mean to keep wearing it?  What does it mean to stop?  What would I do with it?  It's just a little piece of gold, so why do these seem like momentous questions?

As I knew this anniversary weekend was coming up I mulled it all over, and made a decision.  At Mass at St. Clement's today I took my ring off and put it in an envelope in the collection along with a note to the pastor, giving him a little bit of the story and asking him to make the best use of it as he saw fit.

The symmetry of the whole thing was too compelling.  I left St. Clement's 17 years ago with that ring on my finger, and it served me wonderfully as a symbol, a reminder -- maybe a talisman?  (Good word, that.)  Now it's been returned, completing another circle, to serve some new purpose (I wish it were worth more) while I journey on.

It's been four months since Rachel's passing.  The saying "Life goes on" would have seemed trite, and maybe even cold or cruel, on September 9th, but now seems to fit -- it's an observation, not a slogan.  What removing my ring doesn't mean is that I've stopped mourning or missing Rach, or that I'm ready to start something new.  It was just...the right thing at the right time, and another small step toward closure (whatever that means).  I suppose on the list of Who I Am, "Widower" has been moved down a notch, and "Single Dad" has moved up.

I don't want this to be just an "Oh Poor Pat" post, so let me assign a little homework to you married folks out there: What does your ring mean to you?  More importantly, what does your marriage mean to you?  And what are you doing about it?

A little heavy, I know -- I promise a return to frivolity next week.

Pat

(Inscription: "R.J.H. to P.J.H. 1/11/92")

Rock and Roll Part One

We joined the video game generation this fall, setting up a Sony PS3 and a new TV in our newly-finished basement.  I had resisted this for a long time, as I'd rather have the kids doing something more active, playing outside, etc.  But playing video games is certainly more engaging than sitting passively and watching TV, which was their tendency.  That engagement is especially true with multi-player games.

So far the biggest hit is the game "Rock Band", where you play fake instruments (guitar, drums, bass) or sing along with various songs.  The levels for each instrument are Easy, Medium, Hard, or Expert, with the differences being how fast the notes come and how many different notes you have to play.  The game comes pre-loaded with about 50 songs, from new music to punk to heavy metal to classic rock.

Conor's primarily our drummer, since he's a drummer in the school band, and he's ventured up past Medium into Hard on occasion.  The rest of us usually play at the Easy level, to keep from missing so many notes that we get booed off the virtual stage (really!).  My goal is to get good enough to generally keep up with the kids, but stay bad enough that they can still make fun of me, which is their favorite pasttime.

When we're listening to music elsewhere they reject my choices automatically, even though I'm pretty open to new music (Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand, The Killers, etc.) myself.  So it's been fun to see them get an appreciation through Rock Band for some classic rock, including Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper", David Bowie's "Suffragette City", and others.  They've even bought some of the Rock Band songs on iTunes so they can listen to them on their iPods.  Maybe someday they'll appreciate that a lot of good music came out of the '60's-'90's, and that I know my stuff -- "Dad, tell us more about the Rolling Stones and U2..."  I can dream, can't I?

We hosted Christmas this year, and after dinner we all ventured down to the basement to play a little while.  The award for "Best New Rocker" was a tie between Rachel's sister Marilyn and her mom Gert -- see below...

Pat

Christmas Card 2008

I'm not sure who's reading this chronicle any more -- I know that I get about 100 "hits" each week, but that could be the same 15 people reading it each day.  (I doubt that...)  It's still enjoyable to write, so I'll keep it up.  And I promised to post the contents of this year's Christmas card -- see below.

I'm rather proud of getting the cards finished and out the door (mostly) on time -- this was Rachel's job in years past.  One difference is that she used to print them all on our printer at home to save a little money, and she would print a set of address labels from her Outlook account for the envelopes.  This year I composed the card at home and then sent it to FedEx/Kinko's, and a box of 150 of them were ready to pick up the next morning.  And I couldn't figure out how to do the labels, so I just printed out a listing of all the addresses marked "Xmas", and hand-addressed the envelopes as I watched that Thursday night Bears game against New Orleans, checking them off along the way.

I also went back through our saved stack of cards we'd received in previous years, to make sure I hadn't missed anyone.  There were a dozen or so addresses in Outlook that I suspected were outdated, so I conscientiously looked those up using other sources.  Somehow it seemed like an important thing to do.

As I did all of this I realized there were a few people on the list who probably hadn't heard the news about Rachel -- old friends, often living farther away, whom we just swap cards with each year.  Each of them got a short note from me, of course.  That's tough news to receive at Christmastime, I suppose, even from someone you've generally lost touch with.

So for those of you not on the Christmas card mailing list (old friends, new friends, curiousity seekers), here you go:

_______________________________________________

Yes, they really said it in 2008...

I went to my room twice without the lights on and I didn't think of monsters.

Is spontaneous human combustion possible?

If I was ever on Survivor I'd put a blanket in my pants.

You know, if we had 6 fingers we wouldn't have a middle finger.

Do my ears feel hot to you?

I already told you, I don't like people.

Can I use the giant pork fork?

Dad, why are you trying to spend “quality time” with us?

You can never have too many geckos.

Every night I tell all of my stuffed animals they’re the best.  Then I tell them don't go braggin’ about it.

I'd hate to be a plane and afraid of heights.

When I burp upside down it makes me barf.

If our shoes had a fight mine would totally win.

It sounds like something is cooking in my mouth.

I can make myself look stupider.

It's the “Pink Mouthguard of Shame”.

This would have made Mom really happy.

 

Despite everything this year, we still recognize and give thanks for our many blessings.

We hope you do, too.

Merry Christmas

Pat, Fiona, Conor, and Emmet Harrigan

 

Pat

Elvis Story #2: Namin' Nuts

When Elvis was coming up on a year old we got a call from the owner of his sire, "King Ralph". (That's the dog's name, not the owner.) Ralph was a big-time show dog -- one of the best vizslas in the country, a competitor at Westminster, etc. These folks were really into it, and they wanted to know if we'd be interested in showing Elvis. My reaction, obviously, was "Huh?"

I met them one evening at this dog training place in Libertyville, and they gave Elvis some practice runs around the ring. He looked really good, and I figured, "Why not?" So I took Elvis to a few classes at there, and practiced with him every night in the backyard or in the alley. I got a couple of "How To" books as well, since I really didn't know what I was doing.

At this point the kids were 6, 4, and 2, so it was pretty indulgent of Rachel to let me take on a new hobby. Our agreement was that I would only go to shows within an hour's drive, and that meant it was usually just a Saturday or Sunday morning committment. The other thing that made it possible is that vizslas require very little grooming; a long-haired dog like a golden retriever would have been impossible.

Our first show was in December of that year, at a high school in the south suburbs of Chicago (Palos-something). There were about 1200 dogs total, but only 20 or so vizslas. I brought Fiona along for company.

The interesting stuff started right in the parking lot -- it was full of RV's, with lots of Michigan, Iowa, Missouri, and Wisconsin license plates, in addition to Illinois. This was also just when the movie "Best in Show" came out, which has a lot of truth in it, as it turns out. (When Rach would call me at a show asking for a progress report I'd tell her I was "namin' nuts!") Inside there were rows and rows of tables where people were washing, drying, trimming, brushing, and polishing their dogs. Cages, crates, folding chairs, tackle boxes of grooming stuff -- it was quite a scene, and also reminded me of Dave Barry's quote, "There's a very fine line between 'hobby' and 'mental illness'".

We found the ring where we were supposed to be, I put on my numbered armband, and when our time came I trotted him around, let the judge examine him, had him come to a stop-and-pose (a "free stack"), and took him through whatever other paces the judge asked for. We left with a ribbon as the best male 12-18 month vizsla. This was repeated as he won "Best Dog", and finally he went in against all of the already-champion vizslas, including his own sire King Ralph -- and Elvis won! Best in Breed! He didn't go any further that day, losing in the "Sporting Dog" group, but it was still a thrill. Whatever skill I lacked as a handler he made up for as a specimen of the breed, apparently.

At that point I was hooked, and it was clear I'd have to keep doing these shows until he earned enough champion "points". It took about a dozen shows over 6 months, in glamorous locales like the Lake County or DuPage County Fairgrounds, but he "finished" as a champion. He never did go "Best of Breed" again, though -- he peaked early.

We only did one show after finishing, since we had other things to tend to, but the whole thing was still good, clean fun. And long ago I also stopped giving impromptu demonstrations -- the last time I did, with Elvis on his show leash and using my special "Dog Show Dorky Run", I nearly gave Evan a heart attack laughing...

Pat

Altar Serving

Last night's 5pm Mass was Conor's first turn as an altar server. He did very well, aided by big sister Fiona.

Fi has really enjoyed doing this for the past couple of years; if we're 10 minutes into a Mass and she sees that there's only one server, she'll leave the pew, head to the back to get robed-up, and jump in. It's easier for a kid to be a participant and not a spectator this way, rather than actually listening to the service and thinking/praying...

I never signed up for altar boy (just boys back then) training when I was young, but somehow got drafted into serving when I was a freshman in high school. We lived in Ashland, Ohio, and I started serving Masses with my brother Rob, who's a year older. We took pride in doing it well, moving in unison and being as unobtrusive as possible. The most fun was probably ringing the bells during the Elevation of the Host; I miss that sound during Mass, to this day.

During my sophomore year we were asked to do readings at the Good Friday (Tenebrae) service -- Rob and me, our friend Steve Moore, and a few adults. This was a bigger deal, of course, and we were in suits, not cassocks/surplices.

The traditional service varied a little from parish to parish, but it included a gradual darkening of the church, and the end of the service was marked by a loud noise, to symbolize the earthquake at Christ's death. (My father told me they used to drop stacks of heavy books from the choir loft in his church growing up.) Somehow we didn't get prepped on this, as we were focused on getting our parts right.

The readings went just fine.

So at the end all of us up on the altar were kneeling, facing the congregation, who were kneeling and praying in the darkened church as well. Someone from the high school band came from the back behind the altar, with a big pair of cymbals, stepping silently on the plush red carpet. Everyone was watching and anticipating, except for Steve, as the percussionist was right behind him, and therefore unknown. Until the tremendous "CRASH!" of the cymbals...

I've never seen anyone before or since jump so high in the air from a kneeling position. Poor Steve also let out a short but loud "AAAAH!" shout as he whipped around, and there were a few guffaws from the pews. He quickly settled and kneeled again, but the mood was really broken. I could hear people chuckling as they walked out -- "Well, Christ has died, and that kid on the altar almost joined Him!"

We moved a few months after that, so I don't know what Steve went on to do with his life. I hope he doesn't wake up too often in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, with a crash of cymbals in his ears...

Pat