Catharsis On A Bone

From an early age I loved ribs. Beef, pork, lamb, whatever; where gnawing is necessary, I am happy as a clam. (Conversely, that you don't have to gnaw on clams makes them an inferior food source.)

Today, I made a personal pilgrimage to my food Mecca. That is, I went to Reno. The Nugget's "Best of the West Rib Cook-Off" gave me the opportunity to taste a variety of ribs, baked beans, coleslaws and hush puppies. I ate until waddling became necessary. I killed an acre of the rainforest in napkins, and ate the accompanying wildlife equivalent in pork products. In scale form, I caused the polar ice caps (here, ice cubes) to melt.

And I am coming back next year.

Look at this photo. Notice the charred edges. You, my fortunate readers, are literally SEEING flavor. The sauce tasted like a honey/ketchup base, but had a decent amount of pepper. I later tasted a rib with a sauce only applied before being removed from the heat, and the textural experience of eating the rib suffered: the sauce's coating made the cook's skill in determining "doneness" (a magical moment few are capable of perfectly determining) a non-issue. The second rib's meat was more moist. The first had a sauce. If the second had had a sauce, I may have asked permission to follow them on the road.

While the recipes captivated my attention, the tools and techniques would impress anyone (even blasphemers who "don't like ribs"). Recipes are proprietary secrets closely guarded by individual grilling competitors. The monstrous tools necessary for the mass production of barbecue cause me to hope (pray) for a back yard large enough to house my own twenty foot grill. And two sides of pork to grill. No. Four sides. Six? . . . Please?

My own fixations on barbecuing aside, the competitors have expertly grilled for eight hours a day over the past 3 days. They will continue their efforts for the next three days. These lucky few are living the dream, as demonstrated below.

For the record, this man literally painted barbecue sauce on six racks of ribs. Inferior doesn't adequately describe my immediate reaction.

This gentleman relaxing before 8 racks of ribs. . . and a controlled fireball. If John Nash (of "A Beautiful Mind" and "Game Theory" fame) mathematically expressed the relative career of the griller and me, he would determine: Grillmaster >>>> Lawyer.

Note the four "greater than" characters.

More of the same, but this grill and griller arrived from Texas to be voted the best ribs in show. I wholeheartedly agreed.

If anyone has any (hidden) interest in attending next year, let me know. I will be making a second pilgrimage to this holy place where mana rains down from above. I mean . . . wait. I'm not obsessed.

Avoiding the Grind

"The wheel of the Good Law moves swiftly on. It grinds by night and day. The worthless husks it drives from out the golden grain, the refuse from the flour. The hand of fate guides the wheel; the revolutions mark the beatings of the heart of manifestation." ~ Helena P. Blavatsky, The Voice of Silence

That Ms. Blavatsky fabricated a hoax beyond even Ms. Cleo's abilities should not undermine the value of her quote, if interpreted with an eye toward the practice of substantive law. We who have chosen the law have knowingly and willingly (and possibly foolishly) hoisted the weight of the world on our shoulders, and submitted ourselves to an industry so difficult that its pedagogy is dedicated to fragmenting deeply held beliefs before reconstructing them on solid ground.

Because of this burden, every once in a while we should escape from the walls we have built.

Living in a suburban utopia complete with street lights every 500 feet, I seem to forget too easily how bright the full moon is with no light pollution. When I took this picture (on my iPhone, so I apologize for the lack of clarity and landscape) the mountains were lit up, every tree within a mile glowing in response to the midnight light. Escaping all signs of humanity left a calming clarity rarely found in the rush of the city.

To my readers who are law students, we (I) need to take a trip to Lake Tahoe some time this year. We are missing the opportunity to escape the responsibilities we have undertaken, even if only for two days. I hope that with our collective intelligence, we will be smart enough to take those few moment to breathe in nature, rather than the law. Those moments away should refresh us and provide us with enough rest to avoid the pitfalls of our daily grind.

As proof of the necessity for a regular escape, consider whether you secretly prefer the excitement of the following quote to the inherent drudgery in the quote above.

"Although human subtlety makes a variety of inventions by different means to the same end, it will never devise an invention more beautiful, more simple, or more direct than does nature, because in her inventions nothing is lacking, and nothing is superfluous." ~ Leonardo DaVinci

My Love...

I guarantee I will disappoint veritable romantics with my misleading header. Rest assured, you sonnet memorizing would be fawning idealists, a future post will chronicle my love life (I'm lying). For those remaining readers, this post is on my latest fascination: cocktails.

The Southern Staple

Mint Julep. Young writer looking to channel the American classics? At the bottom of your julep cup you may catch Twain reciting his recipe: "First, take the best damn bourbon you can find . . ." Despite my lapse in historical accuracy (the quote above is almost certainly apocryphal), the drink conjures images of graying men, reclined on a whitewashed porch, drinking and dozing themselves back to a simpler time. Their simpler time may have included segregation, but I am modern man hoping to glimmer understanding from a past generation's simple pleasures, regardless of their complex vices. So, pour your way back to those less stressful days. If this libation offers a means to travel back in time (it must be how Twain's Connecticut Yankee arrived in King Arthur's court!), be sure to ask the author for his actual recipe.

The Classic

Martini. Classic tuxedos, beautiful women, dangerous men and Walther PPKs come to mind. If your mental image has yet to materialize, let me offer a helping hand. Differences of opinion endure despite the drink's lengthy history, and Bond's flippant order ("Vodka martini, shaken not stirred.") breaches the two overarching debates. Gin or Vodka? Shaken or stirred? Every would-be mixologist harbors personal preferences (Vodka, not Gin. Stirred, never shaken.), but a universal understanding persists: the martini offers an easy classic for all occasions.

The Long-Dead

The Sidecar. I maintain a secret hope that the motorcycle sidecar's inherent thrill is eponymous for the danger in imbibing a few too many of these sweet drinks. My experiences at Original Joe's, an Italian restaurant reminiscent of the restaurant scene in "The Godfather," demonstrates the decline of this beverage. My order of deep fried oysters and a Sidecar caught the waiter's attention. Apparently, in my server's previous 40 years of experience, both of these orders border on extinction. While the Sidecar no longer holds a position of prominence in the cocktail world, glimmers of its influence persist (See the California Cafe's "American Sidecar.") If you want a means to show bartender your "spirited" knowledge is greater than their own, order a sidecar. Smart money says their response contains some form of "What is in that?!" Enlighten them, and enjoy.

The Two Note Favorite

The Seven and Seven. I am not going to offer a long explanation here. It is simple to make, difficult to truly enjoy, and something both men and women should feel comfortable ordering. Trust me, order this drink at your next visit to the bar. It will not disappoint.

Cocktails are the liquid variation on fine dining. If fruits equate to wine, vegetables to beer, the greatest room for expression, and thus perfection, comes through the combination and manipulation of these two subclasses to create cocktails. With these few recipes in mind, I challenge each reader (all two of you) to experience a bit of "fine dining."

Should you stumble across a recipe you find worthwhile, please share. Who knows, after a drink or two (or ten) the sonnets may flow freely.