Just now, 2 pair of teens walked past my house. 2 girls, then, 50 feet behind, 2 boys. Nothing special, right? So why am I writing about it? Because of one very small, yet significant detail.

In each pair, one person was white, the other black. And it wasn't important.

It's that last part that is the paradox: The fact that race is unimportant is very important.

When I was growing up in this town, there were exactly 5 "non-white" people in this town. Old Man Newton and his wife raised horses on the edge of town. They were black. The Spanish teacher at the high school was Peruvian (Hispanic). And a family in town had two adopted sons--one black, one Asian. The city--including all the rural farms and lake-side communities was no more than 5,000 people. In a place where everyone knows everyone, those 5 stood out. They were part of the community, and treated the same as everyone else, but there was always the undertones of them being "different".

The city hasn't grown much in the last 25 years. But the population has changed. There are quite a few families that are "non-white". There are also several immigrant families from Germany and Albania. I watch the kids walking past my house, or standing in the driveway next door, and I see that they're blind to those differences.

In a town this size, there aren't any ghettos. There isn't a "black community" or a "Hispanic community", or any other such arbitrary sub-division. Kids separate themselves along the traditional lines--popular, geek, jock--with no thought to skin color or nationality.

People talk about big cities as being the spearhead of integration and acceptance, while throwing all the small towns together under the umbrella of "backwards" and "prejudiced". But it's the big cities that have Harlem and China Town and Little Italy and all the rest of the segregated communities. It's in the big cities that each minority defiantly lays out the "cultural borders" of Us and Them. It's in the big cities where minorities gather together and people avoid them because "it's a bad neighborhood"--with the subtext that says "it's full of those people.".

In a town this size, if you avoid someone, it's personal. And you'd better have a really good reason for it, because people will notice. You can't hide behind "bad neighborhoods" or "economic status" or "cultural differences". Around here, everyone is just about the same. If you avoid "that girl", it's okay if she's a jock and you're a geek. Or if she stole your boyfriend. But it's not okay if it's because she's black.

In a town this size, everyone sees everyone all the time. Everyone deals with everyone in all kinds of situations. We can't be insular. We can't retreat to our "neighborhoods" or "local communities". Everyone here is forced to look at everyone else as a person not a "member of a different group".

The fight against racism isn't going to be won in New York or Los Angeles--cities where each minority stakes its claim and erects walls around itself--but in small towns like mine where people are forced to see that accents and skin tones don't make someone different; and there's nothing wrong with that white boy making out with that black girl[1].

[1] Well... except for the fact that he's a total dorkish dweeb and she's exceedingly hot.

Pardon me while I sound like a bigoted hick for a short while.

I just opened my Verizon DSL/Phone bill.

1. I have a "reactivation charge". I've never been DEactivated, so how the fuck do they claim that I've been REactivated?
2. I have an "Interstate Access Fee" for a phone line that is local-only (I can't even dial the little down 5 miles away!)
3. And... when I went to find the phone number to call ("Please see page 2")... All the information is in Spanish--and Spanish ONLY. Pardon me for sounding like a bigot, but the last time I checked, Wisconsin was still part of the United States, and the primary language of the United States was still American English! I have no problem with product packaging that's in English, Spanish, & French; it makes it cheaper for companies to market in all of NA, and I can just ignore the other two languages. I don't mind hearing "Para Español, marke el dos" when I'm going through a phone-tree. But when the labels on every one of the customer service numbers is only in Spanish, I've got some bitching to do. Tomorrow, me and Verizon? We're gonna have some serious words.

My cooking (and therefore eating) habits could best be described as a "variable target obsessive-compulsive disorder".

I pick a food--or a style of cooking--and I use it for every meal for a couple of weeks. Then I find something else, and focus on that.

Yesterday, I wrote about the "recipe" for shrimp I came up with. The key to that dish was the mint & white wine cream sauce. Today I used chicken. The sauce turned out much better (though I should have fully browned the chicken, and I could have used a lot more mint; I think mine is too old and has lost its potency). For the next week or so, I expect to be making variations on the cream sauce for any meal I "really" cook (as opposed to boiling tortellini and adding peanut sauce). Then I'll try some other experiment and, if it works, use that for a week or two.

For those that care, tonight's meal was:

• Olive & sesame oil in the wok
• Add mint, black pepper & chives
• Add the chicken and some cashews. Brown them.
• Add Ajwan
• Add white wine, cream, & a little corn starch (to thicken)
• Serve over ramen

As I said, I really should have fully browned the chicken; it would have been much better. And I think it would have tasted much better over wild rice, but I didn't think of it until I'd already finished cooking it.

I'm a cook.

I did it professionally for a little while, but mostly it happens at home with no one else around (hmmm... that sounds like the opening line to "Memoirs of a Midwest Callgirl".)

I've been cooking since I was in high school. I learned from my mom (who learned from her mom, ad infinitum), and our family has a long history of "instinctive cooking". Every so often, I make food for other people and I'm asked for the recipe of whatever it is I made. This is where the problem starts. I don't use recipes. I "cook instinctively". My two sisters (one of whom owns a restaurant) both do the same.

I just finished a really good meal. Let me demonstrate the difficulty in giving the recipe for what I ate:

• Get out however many shrimp are left in the freezer and thaw them
• Put the wok on the stove and fire it up to "kinda low"
• Plop in however much butter is in the butter dish
• Grind in some pepper & add a little bit[1] of garlic powder
• Dump in a whole bunch of mint
• Start some water boiling for the ramen noodles. Boil the ramen whenever (with out the "flavor packet"
• When the butter starts to sizzle enough, dump the shrimp into the wok.
• Sauté the shrimp on low heat for a while
• Add some galangal
• Sauté the shrimp "for a while"
• Add several "glugs" of whatever white wine happens to be in the fridge
• After a while, add some half & half
• Add a few pinches of corn starch to thicken
• Add the boiled & strained ramen
• Add some more wine (because the ramen soaked up all the "juice")
• Add some more corn starch (because now it's all runny again)
• Continue to sauté the stuff until you think it's done
• Dump it all into a pasta bowl, and add whatever herbs you happened to get from the garden (in this case: cilantro, basil, parsley, and chives (in random quantities).
• Serve with whatever booze you happen to have open

I will never make this dish again. I'll make something that's really similar--maybe even indistinguishable for the average eater--but this precise dish? Nope. "Measurements" are for physicists and Playboy Bunnies. Cooking is all about mood, opportunity, and inspiration.

Oh... and just in case you were wondering? The meal was really delicious!

[1] When it comes to garlic, "a little bit" = "not quite enough for the neighbors to smell it" and/or "less than a pound".

*Reside in Purgatory[1]

Jerry Falwell died today.

I think I'll bake a cake.

I know it's quite unChristian to be happy about the death of someone, but I'm willing to cash in any Purgatory Points I have saved up.

Jerry Falwell is one of those "Christian" (and I put that in quotes for a *very* important reason) "leaders" (ibid) that absolutely disgusts me. Oral Roberts, Pat Robertson, and Fred Phelps share that same table. Christ preached tolerance, forgiveness, understanding, and the dichotomy of "accepting life" while "rejecting the use of religion for profit".

Jerry Falwell was an egotistical, greedy, and hateful man who persecuted others in order to push his own personal agenda. He sought to enforce the laws of Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13 with aggressive and vitriolic fervor, while ignoring the other 873 verses in that book--not to mention the entire point of the actual teachings of Christ.

I would give up everything I have--including my life--if it meant I could stand witness to his judgment before the Lord--just to see the look on his face when St. Peter[2] looked him in the eyes and denied him access to Heaven.

Everyone loves to pick on the Catholic Church (and the Pope), but of all the sects out there, Catholicism has the strongest argument for their stance. They have 2000 years of history and some of the most comprehensive collections of scholarship and debate to back up their positions. I can pretty much guarantee that Falwell never even considered the Franciscan debate over whether Christ owned the clothes he wore; this is a man who wore expensive tailored suits (quite possibly in violation of Leviticus 19:19).

Mother Theresa sits at the Right Hand of God.
Mahatma Gandhi sits at the Right Hand of God.
Oscar Schindler sits at the Right Hand of God.

Jerry Falwell doesn't even sit in the same house.

You shall not bear hatred for you brother in your heart. Though you may have to reprove your fellow man, do not incur sin because of him. Take no revenge and cherish no grudge against your fellow countrymen. You shall love your neighbor as yourself.[3] I am the lord.

---

[1] Yes, I know that Jerry is a protestant and, therefore, does not believe in Purgatory but, quite frankly, this is one of those times when my Catholic upbringing and its associated customs *really* seem appropriate (and comforting) right now.

[2] Yeah, I know. I'm falling back on those Catholic traditions again.

[3]

"You shall love your neighbor as yourself: cited by our Lord as the second of the two most impportant commandments of God. Althose in the present context [Leviticus] the word "neighbor" is restricted to "fellow countryment", in Lke 10: 29-37 Christ extends its meaning to embrace all men, even enemies. [Editor's comments: The New American Bible, St Joseph Edition, 1970]

This is basically just to let people know I'm still alive.

I've been keeping rather busy lately with work and house stuff. Work is still in overdrive (2 weeks and counting until the holiday deadline[1]), and the house is trying my patience. There's so much I want to get done, and so little time to do it. It's weird... most people want to win the lottery so that they can buy a mansion and a fancy car and stuff. I want to win the lottery so I can afford the time and supplies to renovate my little house. There's so much I want to do, and my time and funds are so limited, that it gets to be frustrating at times. Normally, I'm a very patient man. Somehow, I'm so wrapped up in this house that it makes me forget that.

"An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl she used to be. A great artist can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is, and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be, more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo see that this lovely young girl is still alive, prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart."

Robert Heinlein wrote that in reference to one of August Rodin's sculptures. In the abstract, that applies to this house. When I first walked into this house, it was.... abused; empty, beaten down, broken. The yard was filled with weeds and a broken plot of garden left to die like the bastard child of a Greek king. The stucco was cracked and blistered like the skin of an elderly farmer. The paint was garish, peeling, and ugly in the way of a fad long since past. Her joints creak. She has scars--some deep, some only ugly.

But I looked at this house and I saw what she once was. I looked under the paint and behind the cracks, and I saw what she is. And I knew that, with patience and sweat and money, she could be that beautiful lady once again. And yet.... While I may--will!--restore her to her past glory, to the beautiful lady that she was in her heyday, she will always retain the depth and richness that comes from almost a century of existence. And that is what makes this tired, scarred, and abused house a truly beautiful home.

Every day, I look around me and see all the things that need to be done--that I will do--and I see how it will be when I'm done. If I had a million dollars, she would be in her glory again by the end of the summer.

And it's that which frustrates me. I see the end of the Path. I know how to get there. But my body, my schedule, and my bank account all hold me back. Behind this cracked stucco, gold linoleum, and quarter-inch of trendy paint is a house that remembers flappers and gin joints and Warren G Harding.

She's beautiful.