Yearly Archives:

2015

A Very Savory Soup

My newly-kindled love affair with soup is in full-effect with this entry. I’ve declared my obsession with Lidia Bastianich from the Create Public Television station (don’t get me started on one man’s unhealthy fixation on JoAnn Weir) and one of her Italian cookbooks features a section on soups that has transfigured the entire notion of that liquid love.

Most of my former issues with soup revolved around the idea of it being rather insubstantial starter fluid, light of heft and lacking in anything fully filling. An ill-fated cabbage soup – made mostly of water and cabbage, and devoid of flavor or broth – did nothing to help my disdain for the dish. Yet there are ways to bulk up any watery concoction – from the simple amendments of noodles or rice, or more decadent additions of coconut milk or cream. When all else fails in thickening up a big pot of the stuff, simply boil it down for an hour or two – even the clearest of liquids will eventually condense into flavorful richness. Oh, and when even that doesn’t managed to turn it something good, drop in a few bay leaves – the greatest secret of many a cook.

Lidia suggests the making of a big batch of vegetable broth base, from which you can create virtually any kind of soup. Still holding onto a few strong threads of doubt as to how flavorful a soup could be made from water, potatoes, celery and carrots (not even an onion or clove of garlic!) – I forged ahead and did as instructed.

The most difficult part of this is the peeling and cubing of two pounds of potatoes – but this is the work that keeps one occupied on a cold day, the mundane routine of the kitchen that, when coupled with music and a glass of red wine, can turn into something wondrous instead of woeful. It’s the cozy preparation that lays the groundwork for a spectacular bowl of goodness that will warm the oncoming night. I’m getting ahead of myself. First, the recipe, from ‘Lidia’s Family Table’:

SAVORY POTATO BROTH

Ingredients:

  • -        ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
  • -        2 ½ pounds russet potatoes, peeled and diced into ½ inch cubes (approx. 6 cups)
  • -        2 teaspoons salt
  • -        2 stalks celery, finely chopped (about 1 ½ cups)
  • -        2 medium carrots, peeled and grated (about 1 ½ cups)
  • -        3 tablespoons tomato paste
  • -        4 quarts water, heated to boiling
  • -        3 bay leaves
  • -        1 or 2 pieces outer rind of Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano cheese

Preparation:

In large cooking pot, heat oil to medium-hot, but not to the point of smoking. Add potatoes, sprinkle on 1 teaspoon of salt, and toss in oil. Cook until lightly crusted and caramelized (about 6 minutes). Lower heat to prevent burning, and stir so they don’t stick. As potatoes start to leave a crust at bottom of pan, add celery and carrots. Stir well, scrape up any potato crust, and raise heat until vegetables are hot and steaming. Push aside to clear a hot spot in center of pan and drop in tomato paste, cooking it a bit before integrating it into the vegetables.

Pour heated water into pan, drop in bay leaves and cheese rind, grind 1/2 teaspoon black pepper, add salt, and stir well. Cover pot and bring to a soft but steady boil for an hour, stirring occasionally.

Uncover pot and cook for another hour or so, still at low bubbling boil, until it has reduced to 4 quarts.

After an hour, remove the bay leaves and let cool. Divide as you wish, or use as a simple soup on its own. Oddly enough, I didn’t happen to have the outer rind of a big-ass block of cheese lying around, so I omitted it – though I can see how that would add another layer of richness to the affair, and may find a smaller piece in the future for just such a purpose.

This is the savory vegetable broth base from which I made two variations on a couple of Lidia’s recipes: a parsnip and fennel soup, and a bok choy and scallion soup. Basically I chopped up the additional ingredients and boiled them for 45 more minutes or so. The russet potatoes somehow remained solid enough and didn’t fall apart – not sure if this was due to the initial cooking in oil part, but whatever the reason, it’s a happy one.

Though it’s a simple recipe, it does take time – but that’s cooking time, not active preparation and work time, so once it begins you can sit around writing silly blog posts while the heat works its magic. You can also speed things along by upping the heat and boiling factor, but the slow nature of the cooking process is, for me, part of its cathartic empowerment. One of the best lessons of all is to be found in the making of soup: patience.

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Of Soups & Stews

One of the few saving graces of the arrival of the colder seasons is the opportunity for comfort foods. The downturn in temperature practically demands it, and it’s the one instance where I’m happy to oblige. This is the time of the year when I enjoy cooking. It’s cozy to be in a kitchen warmed by simmering stews and soups or a tray of winter vegetables roasting in the oven. I’ll attempt a chicken at some point in the coming months, but for now it’s just soup, as evidenced by the feature photo.

This one is a bowl of Won Ton soup, procured at a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown. Suzie and I ducked in just before closing time on a late September evening a little before midnight. The winds were starting to bite, and we were only about half-way back to the condo, so we took refuge in the almost-empty restaurant. A novice to the Asian noodle scene, I vowed to make this the fall and winter in which I sustain myself with their heat-miser magnificence. I chose one of the first soup entries on the menu – something with pork dumplings and scallions that sounded plain enough to enjoy as an entry-way to more extreme bowls down the line. It was amazing.

The broth was light but flavorful, and the pouches of pork dumplings were like pungent little pillows, providing their spicy protein in puffs of perfectly-puckered pulchritude. Scattered with scallions, the soup was layered with several levels of flavor, even as the main broth was relatively clear. The noodles were just the right amount to sustain without overfilling, and substantial enough to be more than satisfying for a full meal. Up until recently, I’ve always considered soup to be s starter or an accent, not the main course, but I’ve changed my mind. With noodles and/or rice, a soup can be a hefty dinner unto itself, and this fall I’m making it a staple dish in the seasonal repertoire. Stay tuned for more soup tales…

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Hotel Primping

A bottle of Byredo Parfums stands sentry on the vanity.

A white robe hangs on the wall, white towels litter the tile floor.

A soapy mist, cut by a bit of cologne, peeks out of the bathroom.

This is the art of getting ready, a significant moment in time that many of us too quickly discard. For me, it is everything. All the hope and possibility of the evening is there in that jewel of time. It is always better than anything can ever truly be, and I’ve always prized it for precisely that reason.

While on tour, these are the moments that matter. The in-between magic that happens in hotel rooms, the preparation for a night on the town, the act of dressing up for an event – all of it is imbued with something extra, some additional sprinkling of fairy dust that lends it a sparkle I miss when not on tour.

The simple act of taking a shower – so mundane and commonplace – can be made into an indulgent act of pampering when given the proper respect and attention to detail. (Granted, an extravagant hotel suite helps, but how often do any of us get to experience that?) It’s far better to bring something special into a daily way of life – the happiness and joy spilling into otherwise routine behavior – than to reserve it solely for those rare occasions.

Then, in the mirror, a sudden contemplative flash of self-examination in the midst of the conjuring of glamour. Bereft of any sartorial armor, save a towel or pair of underwear, there is no hiding from yourself. How many times do we look at ourselves in the mirror and truly see the person staring back? We study the lines, the wrinkles, and the gray hair, and we pick apart our faults and flaws and fuck-ups.

We then do our best to hide them, whether that’s literally covering up in a flashy jacket or simply accentuating our strengths. How much of our lives are spent in such masks? How many minutes and hours have we devoted to such preparation? How much have we loved it? 

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David Beckham’s Bum

While not solely devoted to David Beckham’s backside, this post does have several fine examples of said bottom. I’m not going to waste your time, and mine, by espousing rhapsodically on Mr. Beckham’s remarkable assets – too many words have been spent drooling over his attributes, and I’m growing tired of all these mixed metaphors. On with the David Beckham ass show for a Friday.

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The Incontrovertible Turn

The snow was not necessary to let us know that the turn into fall had been executed a while ago. It flickers and fades in the memory, receding further into the past. No longer is it possible to pretend that it hasn’t yet happened. There are a few more warm days to come, I hope, but the chill has set in, and the heat that the earth holds through early autumn has just about dissipated. Once it goes, it’s very difficult to get it back again, and we likely won’t have that all-enveloping warmth until next June. That feels like a long way off.

On Sunday, when the first few snowflakes fell, I’d made a tour of the yard. It had been a couple of weeks since I was last out. The fallen annuals and desiccated, brown ferns depressed me too much. In addition, I’d been sick, and traipsing around in the cooler weather did not seem like a good idea. Besides, I’d already seen the devastation that the arrival of fall inflicts on a garden. It starts with the ostrich ferns, particularly in such a dry hot summer. They were on their way out months ago. Now, they are long gone.

The leaves of the coral bark Japanese maple tree are just beginning to light up, and as soon as they turn yellow the brackets of their red bark will form a magnificent pairing. The traditional Japanese maples will burst into a brighter scarlet, and when they catch the dying sunlight they will burn like the most glorious fire.

The lady ferns have held on, and will slowly go a ghostly pale-cream shade, much like the lighter leaves of the Solomon’s seal have already done. This year the leaves of the hydrangeas have gone straight to burgundy, an interesting combination with their pink umbrels which continue the show. I cut them off and brought them inside before the hard frost.

Northern sea oats are in their seed-headed glory, nodding their dangling architecture in the slightest breeze, swaying and gently shimmering in whatever light the day affords. They’ve gone an earthy tan color, but even that will glow in afternoon sunlight. One of the best, and most surprising, color shifts occurs on the feathery leaves of the weeping larch. It looks so convincingly like an evergreen that the switch to a bright copper hue is startling, and always a shock. A beautiful, fiery, final clarion that will have to be enough to ignite the memory until its soft wintergreen starbursts signal the arrival of another spring.

The garden breathes slower now, preparing for its annual slumber. The days sigh, giving way to the nights. There will be other ways to find warmth now.

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A Sexual Day of Reckoning

The release of any Madonna album carries great import, but in 1992 it meant something even more, as her first book ‘Sex’ was released at the same time (actually, a day in advance). It was a heady moment in Madonna history, and it imprinted itself on my memory for a number of reasons. The cover stories of ‘Vanity Fair’ and ‘Vogue’ had primed my anticipation (with two of her best features in each, and scorching photo shoots by Steven Meisel to accompany them) and the entire world had heard about the ‘Sex’ book. All I really cared about was the music, and the ‘Erotica’ album more than delivered on the aural satisfaction front.

The scratching of a record needle opened the main event, then the dark bassline – sinister and seductive – lured the listener into a delicious dungeon of sexual threats and erotic promises. Her throaty whispers and the convincing assimilation of the Dita persona ushered in a new level of sexual boundary-pushing, while the gritty house music was interlaced with the sampled horns of ‘Jungle Boogie’. The song rode to number 3 on the Billboard charts, thanks less to its own merits and more to the outrageous hype that surrounded its release.

My own sexual awakening was on the verge of happening, and the ‘Erotica’ album would accompany it in ways I’m not quite ready to divulge. The male supporting cast of ‘Sex’ fueled more fantasies than all of Madonna’s naughty bits, but I wasn’t prepared to admit it. Instead I focused on her, on her naked body, trying to force myself into liking it because I thought that’s what I was supposed to like. In truth, it was less the nudity of her person that struck me, it was the poses of vulnerability that turned me on most. It was also the guys at the Gaiety – the former male strip-club that was once plopped right in the midst of Times Square, across the street from the Marriott Marquis, where I would pay a pittance for Ann and Suzie to join me in the audience to watch guys get into their birthday suits and dance a bit before heading backstage, fluffing up, and coming back out in blood-filled form. Ahh, the good old days of New York.

The best part of that experience was the waiting room/lobby area, where stills from ‘Sex’ were framed on the wall. Far more thrilling than hard naked cock in our faces was the idea that a year or two prior Madonna had stood in that very space, posing with those very naked strippers, and crafting the book that would stand in infamy forever after.

Yet for all the supposed seediness of the scene, there was something rather quaint about it. The whole thing was artifice. I could see that then, and appreciate it as such. There was no danger for me here. The simple word ‘No’ could accomplish a great deal, preventatively speaking. It would be much more terrifying, and harmful, to fall in love than to watch a guy get hard and naked on stage. The same proved true for my experience with ‘Sex’. I took the images for what they were – some artful, some trashy, some moving, some silly – and I understood that this was a presentation, inviting the viewer to conjure their own thoughts and fantasies, to pick out what moved us, and what didn’t, and perhaps wonder why our own sexual proclivities were such as they were. It didn’t lead me down any path into danger – my heart would do that on its own.

As for the ‘Erotica’ album, it fashioned its own journey along a spectacular soundscape filled with hooks and harmonies and choruses that underlined the fact that Madonna, almost a decade into her career at that point, was a pop music master who knew her way around a concept album. Sex may have been at the forefront of songs like ‘Erotica’ and ‘Where Life Begins’ but love was the driving force behind it all, as evidenced by the vast majority of cuts (‘Fever’, ‘Deeper and Deeper’, ‘Waiting’, ‘In This Life’, ‘Why’s It So Hard’, ‘Secret Garden’and ‘Rainâ’). The accusations of Madonna being vapid and vacuous in this period must have been made by those who hadn’t listened to the album in its entirety.

I listened to it non-stop that fall. As the leaves fell from the trees, and I shook off any vestiges of childhood from my body, the emergence of a young man gripped me physically, casting off innocence even if I hadn’t really done anything, even if knowledge was often misconstrued as guilt.

ONCE YOU PUT YOUR HAND IN THE FLAME, IT CAN NEVER BE THE SAME

THERE’S A CERTAIN SATISFACTION IN A LITTLE BIT OF PAIN.

I CAN SEE YOU UNDERSTAND ME…

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It’s Andy’s Birthday!

While a dinner at dp and an evening with Wanda Sykes were Andy’s main birthday presents, we’ll also be taking him out to one of his favorite restaurants this evening, Bongiorno’s. Seeing as how today is his actual birthday, one must mark the event accordingly. Andy is pretty low-maintenance when it comes to most things, birthdays included. (Though my birthday celebrations may seem more extravagant, I’m the person solely responsible for planning and reserving and making it all happen, so it you’re going to characterize me as high maintenance, I’m only high maintenance for myself – no one else had to lift a finger.)

I made a much bigger surprise bally-hoo for his 50th birthday (which we spent in Ogunquit for a few additional days). This time around will be far less impressive, but hopefully no less enjoyable. He’s already getting great fun out of my parents’ gift to him – a canister vacuum that he loved instantly. It was a request from the birthday boy himself – and cost way more than any Tom Ford Private Blend, so once again my extravagance is an assumption over actuality.

At any rate, he deserves a very special day (and dinner) for being such a great guy. Happy Birthday, Drew – I love you. (And many happy returns of the day!)

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An Almost Snowy Recap

Yes, it snowed here yesterday, Ho hum, hum-drum, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. Too early for that kind of nonsense. Way too early. Thus, we do our best to keep things hot just a little bit longer.

Today is Monday, but the real blues hit tomorrow.

Ben Todd was incendiary in full-color, and black-and-white. 

Stal and vamp, vamp and stall.

Simon Dunn had his second crowning as Hunk of the Day.

Show us your tackle, indeed.

This will never be a political blog, unless it involves hunky politicians like Martin O’Malley.

Madonna: at close range (at least, the closest that I’ve ever been).

By request, Randy Orton was another Hunk of the Day.

Eat here at your first opportunity.

One of the more polarizing Hunks of the Day in recent memory is Frankie Grande.

This Speedo Trio was a triple-threat of sexiness.

Separately, they were pretty hot too.

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Speedo Close-Up

On this snowy Sunday (yes, snow in mid-October, because upstate New York sucks that way) here’s a second Speedo post to keep you warm. With this one, we are taking a closer examination on each of the guys featured on this Speedo Trio post.

First up is Jack Laugher, the blondest of the three, whose swimsuit barely seems to contain his backside. Pop it like it’s hot, because it’s freezing here today.

Second is Speedo All-Star Tom Daley, who gave us his all in myriad posts over the years.

Finally, on this day of threes, the third specimen we take on his own is Chris Mears, rounding out his colorful Speedo and soaking up the rays on a beach that is most decidedly warmer than anything in these parts. Calgon take me away.

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Speedo Trio: Tom, Jack & Chris

This triple threat threesome consists of Tom Daley, Jack Laugher, and Chris Mears, each of whom has been featured in solo fashion, particularly Mr. Daley, who has his own category on this website (a feat that only the iconic likes of David Beckham, Ben Cohen, Tom Ford and Madonna have managed to earn). This time, their Speedo-clad prowess combines to the power of the third, lending a prismatic status of hunkiness to the scene.

Tom Daley was christened with his first Hunk of the Day honor here, where we celebrated him in, of all things, a Speedo. It’s really the only way to celebrate Tom.

Jack Laugher got his first, and thus far only, Hunk of the Day spread here. Surely, he lacks nothing to merit a second, other than an Attitude photo shoot or such.

Finally, bringing up the proverbial rear in nothing but his own, Chris Mears stripped it off and got his Hunk of the Day crowning here.

Taken together, they make for a very merry Sunday morning, something to stave off the chill and conjure a source of heat that only the Speedo-clad can.

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A Most Amazing Boston Restaurant

Celebrating our 40th birthdays, just a couple of months after the fact, Suzie and I reserved a seating at O Ya, probably the best restaurant in Boston right now. It was to take place the night before our Madonna concert, and the entire weekend was a much-needed reunion of two very dear (and ever older) friends. After a brief out-of-the-way excursion (we got talking and didn’t realize we passed our exit by 45 minutes…oops!) we found our way back on track to Boston and arrived to a parking space right on Braddock Park. No matter, we hadn’t seen each other in a while, and certainly haven’t had much one-on-one quality time, so this was a luxury. The sun was shining, the first days of fall were just upon us, and the weekend stretched out full of promise and possibility.

A cocktail at the Hotel Intercontinental started things off on the right foot, but after that it was all about the amazing works of culinary art that paraded before us at O Ya.

Each plate was a revelatory masterpiece, building in taste and exquisite artfulness.

It’s a pricy endeavor, but one only turns 40 once. (Thank you, Suzie!)

The dinner was matched only by the company, and Suzie always manages to remind me of comfort and safety and family, and all the good things on which we should be able to rely.

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Madonna: At Close Range

In the last fifteen years of attending Madonna concerts, I’ve never had really great tickets. Seeing as how I’m not a cajillionaire, I don’t have the thousands (literally) of dollars it would require to see her up close and personal. (I also feel like I’m too short to enjoy floor (standing) seats anyway, so the first tier has been preferable anyway.) The closest I’ve gotten to her was a Reinvention Show in Worcester, where her catwalk extended closer to the back of the arena. That was a revelation, but the last few tours our seats have been far away. (In a disastrous viewing of the MDNA Tour in Boston, Andy and I were seated behind the stage. Really, we were actually BEHIND the stage. It was only made bearable by the behind-the-scenes action we could gawk at. Rocco chumming around with the back-up dancers!)

On her Rebel Heart Tour, I was expecting some back-of-beyond seats again but thanks to her extensive heart-shaped stage extension, we were closer than we’ve ever been. With two empty seats in front of us, Suzie and I were treated to unobstructed sight-lines, and Madonna close enough to clock her facial expressions. It was a dream come true, and made this quite possibly my second favorite Madonna concert ever (the first will always be the very favorite in my mind – the Drowned World Tour).

Due to such proximity, I was able to sneak a few of the better photos I’ve been able to take of her myself. That’s a luxury usually afforded to other lucky folks, and to be honest I didn’t take more because I was simply too engrossed in the gorgeous sound and spectacle of it all. (And clearly there are much finer ones out there than my mini-camera could capture.)

In one of the longest-promised posts to come, there will be a far-more studied review of the show at a later date. (It will arrive well before my full-frontal nudity reveal, so stay tuned.)

As for the closeness of my ultimate muse, the woman who has held my fascination for three decades and counting, it was a magical brush with greatness, and as she sang ‘Rebel Heart’ mere feet from us, my eyes filled with tears. Yes, I can be sentimental and sappy – but only when it comes to Madonna.

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Show Us Your Tackle

Ever since the #CockInASock craze and ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, I’ve been on the lookout for the next fun-yet-ridiculous-in-the-name-of-a-good-cause event. It seems that may be on hand with #ShowUsYourTackle, as put on by one of my favorite clothing shops, Jack Wills, in support of the brainstrust – a brain tumor charity. Most of the guys who have been doing this are doing so with their shirts off, as exhibited by the photos here of the Flair Bears.

You can enter the contest too (even if you probably can’t use the big £5000 bar tab) but you’ll need a pair of Jack Wills pants (and you can’t borrow mine). I may show you my tackle, but not unless this sinus issue clears up, and soon. I don’t pose when I’m this sick – it’s just a thing.

Here are the official rules:

To be entered into the competition, it’s pretty simple. Get your Jack Wills pants out (take this as you may: on your head; over your jeans; or strip down…), take a picture, and upload to Instagram, making sure to hashtag #showusyourtackle and tag @JackWills.

For each picture posted Jack Wills will donate £1 to Brainstrust, so you can be doing something amazing for charity, AND entering the competition…ALL whilst getting your kit off.

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Back-Log Rolling

The only good thing about the sinus cold that is ravaging me from the neck up is the fact that it waited until the end of this year’s trip to Ogunquit to strike. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that small favor. (Other years have not turned out as fortuitously.) Unfortunately, that meant going into work with a countenance that was decidedly less than happy. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a wimp when it comes to sickness – after a childhood wracked with asthma and lactose issues, I can take a bit of sickness and discomfort without much complaint. However, when I do get ill, it’s no joke. And yes, I’m a little testy, but never wimpy about things. Needles and blood tests and hospitals never scared me. Hopefully we won’t get to that point. I’ll stick to a steady regime of Zicam and hot green tea made with boiled water infused with fresh ginger coins. Tastes as delightful as it sounds!

In the meantime, I promise to do my best in getting back on track with some updates regarding recent Boston and Maine trips, and some magical Madonna moments as well. The Delusional Grandeur Tour isn’t slated to resume until next week’s ‘Book of Mormon’ performance at Proctor’s, so there’s some time for recuperation. I am determined to let nothing derail this tour! Ok, the second exclamation point in as many paragraphs is a clear indication that I’m not right! Oh God, there’s a third. Heading out to find my mind…

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Tuesday Mornings

I’ve long maintained that Tuesday mornings are far worse than Monday mornings, and that holds doubly true on the Tuesday after a Monday holiday. I’m not sure why I’ve always thought less of Tuesdays. Maybe it was that damn religious education class that we were forced to take on Tuesday afternoon, the one that extended the school day well beyond that of those fortuitously-non-Catholic heathen classmates. More than that, though, I think it’s because one expects that avalanche of awfulness that is Monday, so when it comes, it’s never as bad as it seems.

Tuesday takes you by difficult surprise, the morning minutes slowing to a snail’s pace, halting and hesitating and making themselves known in a cadence that usually goes unnoticed on a Monday. Of course since today is the first day of a workweek, it may function more like Monday in that respect. So I’m hoping I won’t mind this Tuesday as much. I’ll save the drudgery for Wednesday.

This post has been brought to you by post-weekend/post-vacation laziness.

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