A minor problem of the heart

You may know that since I’ve returned from vacation I’ve been frequently visiting a variety of doctors. While I was in England I experienced chest pains, an irregular heartbeat, and other symptoms that required overnight hospitalization. Since then, I’ve undergone a number of diagnostic tests to determine why my heart has been misbehaving. What the hospitalization and testing have shown is that I have not had a heart attack. What cannot be ruled out is that I have some form of cardiovascular disease.

Tomorrow, I’ll be going to hospital to have what’s known as a cardiac catheterization and an angiogram. This will allow direct observation of the arteries and veins in my heart to see if there is restriction of blood flow in one or more areas of my heart. If there is a blockage, I may have angioplasty and the installation of a stent to ensure that blood continues to flow to all parts of my heart muscle. It’s possible, but highly unlikely, that I might need a more involved procedure at some point in the future. (As a footnote, let me say how much I appreciate the work of our colleagues at the National Library of Medicine for the information they provide on this and all health issues.)

All of this has caused me (and some of you) much concern. I’m very lucky in that I have a very supportive family, friends and colleagues who have encouraged me to immediately change some behaviors (cigarette smoking!), consider modifying some others (my diet) and reinforce some that I already have (regular aerobic exercise). My medical team includes a great family practice physician and a group of cardiologists in whom I have great confidence.

I'll refrain from liveblogging the procedure. I'm sure you'll appreciate it.

Billmon writes so I don't have to ...

From Whiskey Bar:

If, by some fluke, the Democrats were to recapture the White House, they would be well advised to go after the Rovian machine in roughly the same manner that the Russian government went after the old Communist Party after the failed '91 coup. Personally, if it were up to me, I would declare the GOP an illegal organization (as the CPUSSR was) and let honest Republicans go regroup under a new, hopefully non-criminalized brand name -- like, say, the Detox Party.

That, of course, will never happen, but if the Dems don't turn the full weight of the FBI, the DoJ and the IRS loose on the Rovians the very first chance they get, they'll just be asking for it. The Octopus will have it tentacles wrapped around throats again so fast it will make their tiny little brains pop.

And next time, they might not be so easy to peel off.

But Billmon is not quite right here. The description of the problem is spot on. What's incorrect is that we (collectively) do have the power to see that the abuses of power of the last six years -- and which began long before -- are corrected. As heartening as the results of the election are, the hard work of ensuring that our elected officials are accountable and govern well has just begun.

Damn, that feels good to write!

Overheard at Blowoff

When the drag queens arrive, it's time to buy a round.
When the dwarves arrive, it's time to buy shots of tequilla.
When the dwarves in drag arrive, all bets are off, and you're on your own for intoxication.

That pretty much sums up the evening, although I don't remember seeing any dwarves in drag. The last 45 minutes of Rich spinning pretty much made my year in parties.

September 11th

There's a whole lot of kerfuffle goin' on about "The Path to 9/11." Here's my addition:

Mr. Iger,

The American Broadcasting Company and the Disney Corporation have a distinguished history of providing memorable and effective news and entertainment to America and the world. The goodwill associated with these accomplishments is invaluable.

"The Path to 9/11" threatens that goodwill. The use of any tragic event for partisan purposes is inappropriate. The anniversary of the 2001 attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon must not be, in any way, be used to further a political agenda of any type -- liberal or conservative.

Please consider the cost to the corporate goodwill and the public trust that the broadcast of "The Path to 9/11" will cause ABC/Disney.

Sincerely,

James Scott Cory

I know people hurt in the Pentagon incident, and I will never forget the black smoke and the streams of people walking home past our apartment in DC.

Revisionist history and infortainment as agitprop have no place in a modern democratic republic. This is exactly what "The Path to 9/11" (and "Fahrenheit 9/11") are.

Genetically engineered pop stars

OK, so I have the flu. And as such, I'm bored out of my mind. While Snakes on a Plane isn't a movie that I'd pay cash money to see (however much I admire and want to be Samuel L. Jackson), somehow, somewhere I've gotten "Snakes on a Plane (Bring it!)" stuck in my head.

Not for the song: for the performers, who appear to have been genetically engineered to appeal to the target market for the movie. Just where do they find -- or create -- these people?

Returning to the sick bed. Ta.

Getting on with life in a mad world

As I posted here, this is my response to the latest terror threat:

We're flying to England at the end of September. And if it happens that the flight is our Satanic Verses moment, so be it. But I will not let the fundamendalists and authoritarians of the world stop my life and my work towards making a better world.

And should the very, very unlikely happen, I will come back and haunt their miserable, small minded lives.

8:50 AM

There are many things in life of which to be afraid, within reason: the loss of a loved partner, family member or friend; the lack of the financial and social support to survive in the modern world; bad fashion choices; and Paris Hilton. I've survived two of the four in the last five years. I intend to keep going, occassionally kicking ass and taking names.

from my correspondence

Once in a great while, one is compelled to share one's correspondence, especially when it is topical, witty, and possibly erudite. Well, here goes.

Received this morning from my best friend but one:

Personal Message:
Definitely giving Alan Murray's WSJ opinion pages a run for their money as the most wing-nutty op-ed page in the country. Fucking sickening.

Mr. Lieberman's Choice

CONNECTICUT Sen. Joseph I. Lieberman's decision to move forward with an independent candidacy after his loss in the Democratic primary is a controversial choice but in this circumstance the correct one. The leaders of Mr. Lieberman's party lined up yesterday to endorse Ned Lamont, the political...

My response:

Ms. Graham continues to roll in her grave.

Bushco and Darth Cheney need Holy Joe to support their insane "unitary executive" theory. That the Post has prostituted itself as it has is disgusting.

And while it probably is "coincidence" that the latest aviation terror plot was discovered at this time, the timing is oh-so-convenient.

After attending a wedding in which the vows were modified from "until death do you part" to "until you return to God or you should pass away," I'm far more concerned about authoritarian, fundamentist Xtians and their access to nuclear weapons. Don't even get me started on the grammar, and the sheer number of references to God, Christ, or Jesus.

Feh.

My best friend but one's final word:

Until you should return to God??? That's a bit presumptuous.

Rather than having Newt go on big idea tours, the Republicans should just adopt a simple theme, paraphrasing Snakes on a Plane:

The Motherfucking Rapture -- you either want to see that, or you don't.

Speaking of Heathrowpalloza, did you hear Chertoff on the radio this AM? He actually praised the efforts and coordination of our Federal government on this one, incidentally thanking the British government for sharing information. I mean, did Mary Matalin write that for him? Did he somehow miss the fact that it was wholly the effort of British intelligence and that on our end it was just some third level guy answering the phone. Go Feds!! What a colossal ass.

There. I think we've covered everything: Foreign affairs, popular culture and religion.

Swamp Ass

A weather post is an inauspicious return to blogging. But sweating through a t-shirt while standing still, waiting for a bus is pretty remarkable. The beads of sweat trickling down the small of my back, pausing, accumulating, then accelerating down my ass crack are pretty remarkable, too.

Welcome to Washington in July!

And we wonder why the President is not concerned with torture

From Irregular Times:


The original New York Times Article on George W. Bush's branding policy at the fraternity he led, Delta Kappa Epsilon:

---

Branding Rite Laid to Yale Fraternity

New York Times
November 8, 1967

New Haven, Nov. 7 - A Yale fraternity accused by the student newspaper of burning its initiates with a brand will have its fate decided Friday by student fraternity leaders.

The fraternity, Delta Kappa Epsilon, could face the temporary closure of its house and a $1,000 fine resulting from alleged violations of rules previously passed by the Interfraternity Council, which consists of Yale's five fraternity presidents.

The charges against Delta Kappa Epsilon were made last Friday in a Yale Daily News article that accused campus fraternities of carrying on "sadistic and obscene" initiation procedures.

The charge that has caused the most controversy on the Yale campus is that Delta Kappa Epsilon applied a "hot branding iron" to the small of the back of its 40 new members in the shape of the Greek letter Delta, approximately a half inch wide, appeared with the article.

A former president of Delta said that the branding is done with a hot coathanger. The former president, George Bush, a Yale senior, said that the resulting wound is "only a cigarette burn."

---

Looks the President has some experience with sadism. I'm sure his mother must have approved.

Late to the party, or why iPod Shuffle is really and truly terrifying.

I ran across this meme here. I’d seen it appear in part at Mr. Sean’s place, and here. I guess I’m a little late in getting around to it.

I’ve always been a fan of what I describe as “minimal prophecy.” The hints and signs that one finds through any number of techniques often are useful in shaping what one does and how one does it. So I’ve been amused in the rise of the use of the iPod as a prophetic tool. My only comment is that I still want to know what kind of algorithm Apple uses to “randomize” the shuffle function.


How does the world see you?
Une Histoire d’amore, Gabin
Christ on a cross, an Italian boulevardier? Must be the Armani, Zegna and Zanella.

Will I have a happy life?
Through Hollow Lands (for Harold Budd), Brian Eno
One of the eeriest actual songs Eno wrote – although isn’t channeling composition by chance (editor's note -- that's "Oblique Strategies" for you Enophiles) through iPod shuffle an example of meta meta? I suppose this means my life is spooky – but not this kind of spooky.

What do my friends really think of me?
Mutterlandelei, Richard Strauss/Kiri Te Kanawa
My life as a leider. Hmm. Does the German really cut through the Scots and the French and the Russian?

Do people secretly lust after me?
Acetone, The Crystal Method
Oh dear. Not quite sure where to go with this.

What should I do with my life?
Giant Steps (Alternate Take), John Coltrane
Given that I believe Coltrane was a bodishattva, and his music is the embodiment of what practice really means, I get it. And am flattered.

Will I ever have children?
Andar Com Fe, Gilberto Gil
This damn song always brings tears to my eyes, of joy, for reasons I don’t understand. Of course, it would help if I studied Portuguese more. At least it’s happy. Not sure about the kid thing, though.

What is some good advice for me?
Anyway, Telepopmusik
Be contrary.

How will I be remembered?
The Sheltering Sky, Ryuichi Sakamoto
Full on romanticism meets Piazolla. Jacques Morelenbaum’s high register cello and David Nadin’s violin sound as much like a bandoleon as I can imagine. The Satie bit has always bugged me. The novel is one of the creepiest things I’ve ever read. One could be remembered in worse ways. Perhaps Motley Crue’s “Come On Feel the Noise”?

What is my signature dance song?
The Wrong Band, Tori Amos
Tori playing a waltz about infidelity and sexual perversity: Sounds about right. Surprised “Leather” didn’t spin up, though. Or “Vertigo.”

What do I think my current theme song is?
Daddy’s Gonna Pay for Your New Car, U2
Well, there’s the U2. “Daddy only gives you as much as you can take.” I’m shaking – this is wayyyyyy too close to the bone. Only Bono can make a song that’s about God sound downright dirty.

What does everyone think my current theme song is?
Stop Running Away, Telepopmusik
OK, this really needs to stop.

What song will play at my funeral?
Under the Cherry Moon, Prince
Is my iPod possessed? Or is it a function of the music I’ve selected for it?

What type of women do you like?
Bonita, Bossacucanova
Brasilian(-ish) music. Brasilian women. Beauty. Enough said. I wonder what it would have done if the question were, “What type of men do you like?”

What is my day going to be like?
Predictions, Suzanne Vega
Sweet baby Jeebus. I guess we need to add the iPod to Vega’s litany of prophecy.

Why I love Sasha Frere-Jones

"I saw Jessica Lange and Sam Shephard downstairs, afterwards. They should donate some of their good-lookingness to charity because they are fucking up the whole curve just by walking around and being bodacious. Maybe when Keith Richards falls down, God foxies each of them up a little more."

Wow. I can't add to that.

In an unrelated note, more regular posting may resume shortly. Work has been kicking my ass, and the black dog has not yet given up on our families.

The triumph of snark

Via Popbitch (the best source for snark on the internets):

>> Lap of Luxury <<
New in America: bottled dog water

On sale now in America - vitamin enriched
bottled water for dogs. Toilet Water, has
a chicken flavour; Gutter Water is beef
flavoured; Puddle Water has a liver flavour
and Hose Water is lamb flavoured. A four-pack
sells for $7.49, a 12-pack costs $19.99.


(FYI US aid to Africa is approx $3 per taxpayer.
There are 300 million people in Africa without
regular access to safe water.)


There really isn't much more to say.

www.popbitch.com

Overheard on the Street

"I'm tired of my country having a finger up my ass, and religion having a finger down my throat."

Well, please allow me to add to the litany of fatigue:

I'm tired of the lack of respect for the working men and women who provide us with all manner of services. It starts with treating people with dignity, and it ends with paying them enough to support themselves and their families.

I'm tired of public relations masquerading as journalism. When CNN plays the video press release from Dubai and calls it news -- and NPR uses the same script to do an audio-only version of the story -- something is gravely wrong.

I'm tired of two political parties, both apparently in collusion with special interests and corporations, protecting a corrupt government more reminiscent of a third-world kleptocracy than a modern democratic republic.

I'm tired of entitlement in all forms, from the belief that the very wealthy and powerful automatically deserve both respect and special treatment to the belief that the poor and the oppressed automatically deserve either disdain or a handout.

I’m tired of racism, prejudice, homophobia, xenophobia, and all of the various –ism that turn one person against the other. I’m especially tired and disgusted by the use of any –ism as a political tool. (See Lee Atwater, Karl Rove, and the “Southern Strategy” as examples of what should not be acceptable in a democracy.)

I'm tired of the false dichotomy of the arms race vs. the human race. Security is not achieved at the end of a gun. Freedom is not insured by good deeds and good thoughts.

I know we’re all tired, but I want people to wake up and recognize that we - yes, that collectively, all 6.5 billion of us – that we inherited a tremendous gift and burden. We have all of human history's successes and failures as our collective baggage. And there are no porters to carry it.

And we 300 million-odd Americans have a special duty and responsibility to work to make sure that our country remains a living example of what people can to do to create and maintain freedom.

It's up to us.

OK, down off my soapbox. Regular programming will resume shortly.

I love Jane Smiley

Really, there's nothing more to say.

The Beautiful Game

Brasil is the beautiful game. It's all about taking the ordinary, eating it whole, and making something extraorinary. (You fancy people may have heard the term cultural anthrophagy used in sociology and philosophy. Brasilian origin, from Latin roots.)

Before the critique of urban poverty, income inequality, crime, and domestic violence, let me list a few things Brasilian that make the world a better place:

Brasilian football (or soccer, for Americans) -- Graceful, improvisational, impossibly skilled, the Brasilian national football team created the beautiful game. Even playing against the Germans in the last World Cup, Brasil proved they define the game of football. They rise to the occassion, adapt, and overcome.

Feijoada -- the Brasilian national dish. Black beans plus meat, cooked for a loooonnng time, and served with collard greens (couvee), rice, and orange slices. I wish I could say feijoada is healthy for the body (I'll spare you the gory details of my recipe), it sure as hell is comforting.

Brasilian music -- Bossa nova. tropicalia. music popular brasilero (MPB). Antonio Carlos Jobim. Caetano Veloso. Joao Gilberto. Gilberto Gill. Danielle Mercury. Carmen Miranda. Chico Science. Maria Bethania. Bebel Gilberto. Baden Powell. DJ Dolores. Virginia Rodrigues. Tom Ze. I can go on but I don't need to. Beauty, sadness, skill, invention, humanity, humour: it’s all there.

Renewable energy – 20% of Brasil's vehicles run on domestically produced ethanol. Now there’s moving to produce biodiesel.

And it’s more that just vehicles. Following some spectacularly wrongheaded hydroelectric development in the 1980s and 90s, Brasil is following a sustainable path. Enough said.

Housequake

Prince Rodgers Nelson, aka "glyph", aka "the Artist formerly known as Prince", aka "Prince" released a new album this week, "3121". There's been buzz about the album for some time, with the cool kids atwitter -- and justifiably -- at what promised to be a return to form for a great pop writer and performer.

I've only heard the iTunes available "Black Sweat". The Washington Post's J. Freedom du Lac writes this:

""Black Sweat" is a delicious slice of stripped-down electro-funk that sounds like Prince doing his best Pharrell doing his best "Black Album"- or "Kiss"-era Prince, which is so meta it hurts. The song is all stuttering drum machines, hand claps and buzzing, burbling synths, with grunting vocals and falsetto shrieks: "I'm hot and I don't care who knows it, I got a job to do," Prince yelps."

He's right on. I have one thing to add:

"You be screamin' like a white lady when I count to three" is the sound you hear from a certain apartment in NW DC.

I'm just sayin'.

Grace moving in the world, part III

My father died on Saturday morning, at about 3:30 a.m. I wasn’t at his bedside, but the hospice staff was. They informed me that my father struggled somewhat as his body failed, and then at the end he peacefully let go of the body that had trapped him for the last three months.

Graham (the DP to you blog readers) arrived in Phoenix at 2:00 a.m. I awaited his arrival at the airport with more need and anticipation than I had ever before, for him or for anyone. Our collective relief and joy at our reunion was palpable. The missing part of my being was replaced, as was his. We talked on the way back to the hotel, mostly of trivial things: baseball spring training, how Phoenix appears to be growing as a place like a game of Sim City gone very badly wrong, why Southwest Airlines “cattle car” seating is problematic. We did speak of my father, but only to say that his day was comfortable, and he seemed to be at peace.

We reached the hotel, and settled in. The rhythms and patterns of our life together immediately started, without thought, without hesitation. After all the sturm und drang of the last few days, it wasn’t a surprise that Graham quickly fell sound asleep. My own trip to the land of Nod was somewhat troubled – and then, mysteriously, I slide into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It wasn’t for very long. At 6:30 a.m., Shannon, the R.N. at Odyssey Hospice called my mobile phone. He told me my father had died. Did I want him to call the funeral home to remove my father’s body? No: I first wanted to see my father, and say my final words to his physical body.

Nothing about the call surprised me. My father, an intensely private man at the best of times, proved to be just as private at the end of his life. That he died in the presence of the Odyssey staff gave me comfort. I’d thought for years he’d die alone, and I would only learn of his death through a call from a mortuary or a hospital. While I wasn’t present, people who could care and comfort him were present, and did provide comfort. And – mysteriously – Dad waited until Graham could physically comfort me to leave. Dad left me a gift for which I was immediately grateful.

Both the morning coffee and the first cigarette seemed more bitter than usual. Oddly, Phoenix’s sunrise was obscured by high clouds and the legendary dry air of the desert felt slightly damp. We shuffled across the now-familiar groove I’d worn in Phoenix’s matrix of surface streets and freeways, and arrived at the hospice. I wasn’t afraid; I’d seen my Aunt Monica’s dead body last May. But unlike my father, Monica and I had spent three weeks prior to her death talking, working, laughing, and (against her instructions and intentions) crying, bringing our relationship to a close, and helping her to find her way to peace. What would it be like to see my father, to whom I’d told so much in his final days, hoping that he would hear it and find some comfort in my words and my presence?

It was hard. It was unbelievably hard. The hospice buzzed with the morning activity of any health care facility. The door to my father’s room was closed. I opened the door, and three things struck me: the sound of the oxygen concentrator was gone; my father’s body lay fully extended and relaxed on the hospital bed, the first time I had seen him not contracted since I encountered him in hospital three weeks earlier; and his spirit was gone. Graham stood away from the bed, while I stood at my father’s side, and quietly spoke a few words, and prayed. Then I removed the model airplane hanging from the television, and collapsed into Graham’s arms.

Growing up, four people defined my life: my mother and father, my Aunt Monica, and my great Aunt Natalie. My father called it the coven: Monica, Nat, and Virginia were all extremely powerful personalities, and left an impression on anyone they met and anything they did. My father and I might have formed a boy’s club to resist the girls, but we didn’t. Each of the four was a pillar of my life, and each played a very special – and irreplaceable role – for me. Nat had died first, and her loss was easiest to accept: but I never can step foot in Manhattan, buy clothes, drink a Salty Dog, or order dinner in a restaurant without acknowledging her role in my life.

Monica was next. She was my compass, my second mother who would put me back on the right path when I’d strayed from what was she knew, instinctively, was right for me. Sometimes she made mistakes with her advice, but for the most part, she was the one who dusted me off and sent me moving forward. By the time of her death, she was confident she’d done a good job with me.

With my father, I was never sure that he understood me, or what I needed in my life. I’m not sure he ever understood just how much he had shaped me, or how much I appreciated what he had given me in life – not things or money, but skills and character and experience. One of the last times we ever really talked was over 20 years ago. We were riding in a motor launch across Los Angeles Harbor, on our way to the ship on which my father was serving as an officer. I’d either come from, or was going to, some event while at college, and I was very full of myself. Dad asked what I wanted to do when I finished college, and I said (in that way only the arrogance of youth can allow) that what I wanted was to be comfortable in any circumstance I found myself in. I’m not sure my father expected that answer. But I’m pretty sure he appreciated the sentiment.

I’d like to think that is exactly what I’ve done with my life. And that I was able to become that person because of my father.

Now, he’s gone – but not really. My father didn’t “pass away.” He’s here, inside me. (Ewww. Perhaps not). He’s here, with me, all the time. That’s grace moving in the world, too.

The Last Straw

(Editor’s note: I studied political science, and strategic planning for nuclear war as an undergraduate. I’m less a dilettante than it might appear at first glance)

The Department of Defense proposes, in its most recent budget submission, to spend US $500 million to develop a conventional warhead to replace nuclear warheads on at least one Trident submarine. The Washington Post published the story on Wednesday; I’d read about it before, but was preoccupied by other issues.

This is, simply put, the most dangerous and destabilizing weapon imaginable.

The new warhead, proposed as part of the “Prompt Global Strike” capability, would be used to attack both hardened targets and “soft” threats such as terrorist groups. Now, on the surface, this seems like a perfectly fine idea. However, there’s a major problem.

There is no way to determine whether a ballistic missile has a conventional or nuclear warhead, based on any known method of observation (I don’t pretend to know if, somewhere in the so-called “Black Budget” such a system has been developed). Given that the Russian, Chinese, French, and British (and presumably the Israeli, Indian, and Pakistani) nuclear arsenals are on a “launch on warning” basis to avoid being destroyed in a pre-emptive “first strike”, the firing of a ballistic missile from a nuclear submarine would presumably trigger an immediate response from one or more of the nuclear powers.

Think about it for a minute.

Let’s say some future President receives “definitive” intelligence that Osama bin Laden has been spotted entering a compound near, oh, let’s say Lahore, Pakistan. She authorizes the use of a flight of ballistic missiles to destroy the compound. A message is sent to a Trident submarine in the Indian Ocean carrying the conventionally armed missiles. It comes up to firing depth (about 10 meters under the surface) and fires the missiles towards the sub-continent.

China and Russia know immediately of the launch from satellite reconnaissance, and begin launch preparations for launch of land or sea-based ICBMs. This may happen as soon as 30 seconds after launch. As neither India nor Pakistan have orbital reconnaissance, they only see the missiles once they enter radar range – perhaps five to six minutes after launch, depending on the location of the submarine. Given that both India and Pakistan have land-based ballistic missiles, they immediately prepare their weapons for launch. All four countries are potentially targets, and given the development of maneuverable re-entry vehicles (MARVs) – which are required to ensure the accuracy and effectiveness of a ballistic missile carrying a conventional warhead, all must respond because based on the launch phase trajectory of the missile as there is no way to determine the final targets of the warheads.

Imagine you’re the head of Pakistan’s missile unit: where do you target your missiles? Well, they won’t reach the U.S. (and besides, we’re allies, right?). Russia’s missiles in Asia are far to the north, in Siberia, and on the Kamchatka Peninsula. China has land-based missiles based in the Taklamaklan Desert on the other side of the Karakoram and Himalayan mountains. India has their land-based missiles in the Gujarat Desert. The Israelis might have submarine-based ballistic missiles, but Israel proper is outside the operational range of your missiles. You have approximately two minutes to make a targeting decision.

The head of the Indian missile unit is in the same situation.

Both China and Russia have slightly more time (and much more sophisticated warning and tracking capabilities – they can probably determine what type of missiles were launched, and from what platform). And unlike the Pakistanis and the Indians, their ballistic missiles have global reach. And they have many more missiles, maintained both on land and at sea. So their immediate need to respond is not as great.

Now, our future President may – or may not – choose to notify the appropriate states prior to launching the strike. If she does, she threatens her chances of eliminating the intended target because leaked information would, almost inevitably, reach OBL – and quickly. If she does not, any of the four nuclear countries will think they are targets for the warheads.

So, your two minutes are up. Do you launch your missiles, and if so, where?

This is why this is a destabilizing and dangerous weapon system. Put simply, it kicks open the door to Armageddon. Unlike most “traditional” ballistic missiles, there is no deterrent effect with its deployment. In fact, a ballistic missile with a conventional warhead almost forces a nuclear power with ballistic missiles to an immediate launch on warning posture.

Tell your Representatives and Senators this, now: no funds for development of conventional warheads for ballistic missiles. If we need “bunker busting” and soft target strike capability (which, honestly, are good things to have), then we should do it with a combination of special forces, human intelligence, and stealth aircraft delivering precision guided munitions.

And if you have questions, ask yourself this: do you trust Donald Rumsfeld’s Department of Defense to make prudent decisions about how other countries will respond to our actions?

Thought so.

Vertigo

Hello, hello
(¡Ola!)
I'm at a place called Vertigo.
(¿Donde este?)
It's everything I wish I didn't know.
Except you give me something
I can feel.

Vertigo/U2

The flight back to Washington from Phoenix couldn't be more mundane. It helps having the acquired skills of the seasoned traveller: you learn the equipment you're flying on, figure out the right row in which to be seated, how to chat up the ground crew and security staff to minimize the disruption of post 9/11 security. No matter how good the barbeque smells in the Memphis airport you avoid it (besides, the line is too fucking long). Since you didn't buy tickets at the same time, your partner is flying a different, somewhat eccentric path across country. Will he stop at Luke's and have a sausage and cheesesteak? Will the hand of God swat his flight from the sky, leaving you even more bereft than you already are?

Lest you, dear reader, think I've come completely unhinged, just know that what you've just read is the worst of my thoughts. My grief is present in a lack of patience and a profound fear of any more loss. I want a vacation from drama, and I want it now. I want a Sazerac and a thick steak and a Caesar salad. I want to smoke the cigar I bought to honor my father. I want to hang out with friends and talk religion and politics and ogle hot men. I want to wear my new shirt -- the silk and cotton shirt the color of my father's eyes that feels better on me than any piece of clothing I've ever worn -- and go to Cashion's with the DP. I want to fly a model airplane again. I want to be observant during Lent in a way that honours my father and to know that I will celebrate the Tridium at Holy Trinity, repeating a liturgy that has in part been observed for four thousand years. I want to know first hand that my father wasn't pulling my leg when he said Rio de Janiero is more beautiful than San Francisco.

One down

What they don't tell you, growing up, is that there are some things you'll face that really do change everything. The death of a parent is one of them.

I'd written a lot about my father, recently. And yes, there are far more horrible medical circumstances than being kept alive by a ventilator, feeding tube, and IV drip. But the pain I've experienced came from watching my father lose the possibility of returning to a fraction of the life he once lead while being maintained in a way that appears inhuman.

It's not death – and in particular, my father's death -- that bothered me. It's the somewhere between living and dying where Dad was stuck that made me furious. How could this happen to him? Why couldn't I have done something to prevent this travesty? How can I help my father to make a choice between living a half-life and dying -- and truly being at peace?

In the end I'm not sure he made a choice: his body failed, and he could neither fight his way back to health, or to gracefully accept that he's at the end of life and let go. But I'm sure that he's now at peace, however tortured the path was to get there.

Now, it's about my grief and my grieving. I suspect this won't be pretty, that my choices may be bad, and that things will seem much worse before they get better.

Grace moving in the world, part II

Family is a strange word in American English. Most Americans think of family as their immediate family – father, mother, siblings – and sometimes extend their family to include grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins. My definition of family is different.

It’s different because my experience of family is different. Both of my parents left behind their traditional families early in life. My father’s reasons were obvious; my mother’s are similar (and will remain private for the time being). But between them, when it was time to make their family, there was me – and a lot of friends. Growing up I envied their friendships. I wanted to have friends like theirs – people who did interesting things in the world, who were obviously close to my parents, and who clearly loved my mother and father and were in turn loved by them.

Friends like that don’t just happen. It takes a lot of work to create those relationships, and to keep them working over time. It took me a while (ok, a very long time) to understand how to make it work. (Some of you readers may think I’ve never understood how to make it work.) And over time, I’ve met many wonderful people who have become friends – but really, I think of them as my family. (I’ll skip the listing of each and every one of you who are part of my family – but my guess is, if you’re reading this, you’ll know if you are.)

By creating our family, we find a way to meet our human needs in a very tangible way. In my own life, both of my parents weren’t able to understand some of the issues that I brought to them. But my family clearly understands what I bring to them – and know that I can meet and answer some of their needs as well.

Again, it’s grace that allows us to meet our families. I know that grace moving in the world has brought me to my family.

Grace moving in the world

My father is dying. That, in and of itself, means nothing. We’re all dying, each of us, from the moment we’re born. Too often people lose sight of the cycle of life, and are terrified of what happens when life ends.

My father is one of those people. My father is full of fear. His life has been full of fear. It started with parental and sibling abuse as a child. The fear that comes from not being able to trust those closest to you is corrosive. That fear prevented my father from ever really understanding my love for him, and of the love and respect of many people whose lives he touched. Perhaps because there was so much fear in his life he’s now afraid of death. I will never know for sure.

What I do know is that with the advice and support of family, and of the medical professionals caring for my father, I made the decision to move my father to hospice. Sometime in the next two days, the hospice team will remove the ventilator and feeding tube that have been keeping him alive for the last two months. Sometime after that, my father will die.

I know this sounds very clinical, somewhat cruel, and (to some) immoral. But this decision is very carefully considered. When the mechanical and medical support began, there was a chance – a small chance, but a real chance – that Dad would recover enough to be able to enjoy some part of his life: building and flying his radio controlled model airplanes, researching and creating his inventions, or writing his “crazy papers” (my term) documenting his harassment by various mysterious parties (the Seaman’s Union, the U.S. Marines, and pharmaceutical companies, to name a few).

But for a 79 year old man with a history of diabetes and high blood pressure, a survivor of cancer, and who had recently suffered a series of mini-strokes, the mechanical and medical support are not enough to allow his body to heal itself. I watch my father lying in that hospital bed, unable to squeeze my hand to let me know he heard my voice, unable to control his bodily functions, and I know this is not the man I grew up loving and fighting in order to understand him. His spirit is there, yes; but it is trapped inside a failing body. He will not get better. Left on the ventilator and the PIC line and the hydration line, his heart will continue to function. But other organs – his kidneys, his liver – will fail. The accumulation of metabolic waste in the body will poison him. His muscles will contract, and he will fold into a posture resembling the fetal position.

That is the cruelest of all possible fates: To be trapped, afraid of what’s ahead, unable to let go of a limited and painful life. That is not what my father would want. That is not what I want for my father.

I will be with my father as we remove the medical support that might have allowed him to recover, and now is simply keeping him functioning. The hospice team will be working to make sure his pain is controlled, and he is made as comfortable as humanly possible. Music will be playing – country music, probably Patsy Cline, certainly Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, and maybe Lucinda Williams. Yes, the music is full of the loneliness of the High Plains, and might seem like the least comforting thing to play to a dying man. But I know it’s the music he listened to for hours, traveling at sea or on the highway. It is a friend, comforting him. I’ll be there, letting my father know that he will always be a part of me, and is loved – and that he will live on in not just my memory, but of many, many people whose lives he touched.

With grace moving in the world, my father will stop being afraid, and his spirit will at last be free.

Food Queen

For ten years I've been carrying around an idea -- ok, a fantasy -- for a restaurant at which I would truly love to eat. The restaurant wouldn't be elaborate -- but it would have big tables, comfortable chairs, an attentive, attractive, and knowledgeable staff, and -- most important of all -- a menu designed to suprise and satisfy with a kitchen that delivers the goods. The restaurant would be called “Food Queen.”

Now, given that I'm not in the hospitality business, the chance of me creating this restaurant is zero. Since I live in Washington DC, the chance of me finding a restaurant like this is also zero. And I'm OK with this.

I never expected that I would find such a restaurant. But I have -- and I found not one, but two restaurants that match the Food Queen fantasy. They are all I expected from Food Queen and more.

Both restaurants are in Portland, Oregon. BlueHour is the more conventional of the two. It serves as the corporate kitchen for Portland's advertising community. At the same time BlueHour's menu and staff (both kitchen and hospitality) strike the balance between haute cuisine and comfort. The potential for a pretentious horror of a place is huge. But Blue Hour confounds that expectation.

I've had two memorable meals there -- the first at table, with the DP and our professorial friends, the second at the bar. The drinks are strong, the flavors intense, and it matters not if you're dressed in jeans and fleece or fine Italian woolens and hand-sewn shoes. The menu is smart, not clever, and the food is sumptuous without the pretentious luxury (truffled, Kobe beef hamburgers, anyone?) in which many high-end restaurants indulge. And the restaurant takes up my late friend Jim Brunsman's challenge – no, taunt -- of Portland acquiring the patina of New York with a room that is as elegant as Manhattan's Four Seasons -- but every-so-subtly better and more fun. (Mark Brunsman, if, by some odd chance you’re reading this, call or write. You and Pippa are very much missed.)

If imitation is the sincerest form of appreciation, then I appreciate Blue Hour very, very much. We’ve adopted the ginger gimlet as the house drink for 2006. And the pureed chestnuts that were served with my venison proved equally appropriate with our New Year’s Eve roast goose. The burger is definitely best of show – and to the best of my knowledge, used no truffle or Kobe beef to achieve its greatness.

The Gotham Building Tavern eschews New York style for Northwest vernacular: the wood interior glows in the relatively low light. The restaurant evokes Timberline Lodge without apeing it. But the building that houses the restaurant is an old industrial building in North Portland, in the margin between what was industrial Portland and the wave front of the ever-expanding post-industrial Portland of advertising, new media, and marketing. The building and the restaurant are true to a Portland theme of hiding beauty inside a drab exterior. Somehow, the food and service reflect that same collision and transition of old and new Portland.

The night I ate there (see here) I was full of retail therapy and a deep desire not to be back in my mother’s apartment. I sat at the bar, and started out writing in my journal. The staff quickly brought me around. A wine list was offered; I found a perfect Rhône. The waiter and I chatted about the wine and the menu. I’m not used to having wait staff be truly knowledgeable about food and wine – no offense to waiters, but the chef and maitre’d briefing you on the day’s menu, and possibly the sommelier’s update on the wine list do not make you an expert on food and wine.

The waiter at Gotham was talking about wine. Not about the list – about wine. Like I was a friend – not someone he’s to whom he’s trying to sell a more expensive bottle. And then we talked about food. I confessed that I like to eat at restaurants what I can’t – or won’t – make at home. A second waiter came over. The three of us walked through the menu, talking about cooking, ingredients, and flavors. Finally, I decided on roast marrow bones with bitter herbs, and a fish stew with battered skate, mussels, a perfect scallop, fava beans, and a saffron fumé (I think). (Both were specials. You can see the regular menu here.)

Needless to say, the meal rocked. I was joined at the bar by a very attractive woman, who commented on the bones. I commented on her drink. We started chatting, and we talked more about food, community, sharing meals, and the ritual of the restaurant. It turned out she was married to him. Sweetie, I’m sorry I’ve forgotten your name, but that meal, and our conversation was truly a great experience.

Now, if only Portland were a little closer to Washington, DC.

One up, one down

I wrote at some length about my mother, whose recent adventures in medicine continue, but with a very sanguine prognosis. Mom's home, mom's active, mom has great care and support from her community, and she's even learning to use a cell phone, bringing her almost to the brink of the 21st century. The episode has made me much more secure: Medicine worked, my mom is well-supported in her community, and prayer can make a substantive, positive difference.

Now, my father is quite a different story.

A little background, first: my father and I have a very complicated relationship. His life and mine take very different paths: he is profoundly paranoid, and demands isolation, and I am credulous, and need companionship. He and my mother gave me everything a child needed. He was denied all the comforts of childhood by the untimely death of his mother and by a brutal father and brothers.

I can understand the distance between us. But I am profoundly angry that I have never found a way to maintain a constructive relationship with him as an adult.

I haven't had much contact with him in the last ten years -- well, I walked out of his house when he wouldn't remove the cartridges from a loaded shot gun. He didn't understand how I could be so upset. I have nothing against guns -- hell, I have nothing against any kind of weapon, given the right circumstance. But somehow I knew that gun would be trouble. (I wrote this last week before the Vice-Emperor's President's shotgun mishap. Little did I know that GJC and Darth Cheney shared something in common.)

I was right.

My father suffered a series of mini-strokes sometime last fall. He insisted on being treated at the Mayo Clinic, which did its work and released him. He first went to a nursing home, and then he went home, alone

Now, I knew nothing about this. If I had, I would have been on a plane faster than the Weather Channel on snow in Washington DC. I do medical emergencies really, really well, and understand dimensions of care well, too. My dad should never have been alone in his house. It wasn't and isn't elder friendly.

So as my father tried to hoist himself from his lounge chair, he put his hand on his shotgun, and managed to discharge it into his feet and legs. Thus injured, he was unable to reach the telephone. And so he remained in his house, bleeding, for two days.

When someone finally reached him, he was dehydrated and disoriented in addition to having the trauma of a gunshot wound.

That was November 23.

It's now February 13. Since then my father contracted pneumonia, has had multiple instances of respiratory failure, suffered multiple noscomial infections, has impaired kidney function, and is a very sick man.

And I have no idea what to do.

More to the point, I do know what to do with regard to navigating the health care system. What I don't know is how to work with a parent who is angry, isolated and alone.

Stoned Part I

I'm old enough to have lived through the soul, blue-eyed soul, northern soul, and neo soul genres in pop music. I acknowledge and embrace my love for Marvin Gaye and Arthea Franklin, confess to liking Hall and Oates, respect Robert Palmer, was excited by Macy Gray (before she headed off to her Sly Stone-like exile) and listen carefully for whomever puts themselves as the next soul contender.

So when Lewis Taylor first tickled my ears through the good offices of KCRW radio I took notice, but didn't pay quite enough attention. (What is it about post-it notes scribbled with artist names and CD titles?) Well, this (sorry, may require NY Times Registration -- and TimesSelect, too) kicked my ass into buying the CD. (Yes, kids -- buy, don't download from iTunes -- the production and sound quality demand hearing this in all its glory.). There are a lot of superlatives, adjectives, and comparisons being thrown around about Taylor, but “bloody good” is enough for me. His music is informed by lots of sources, and yet sound nothing like any of 'em. And as a one-man performer/producer, he's crafted a sound that is both polished and rough. No small feat. Is it cutting edge? No. But it is great music that rewards repeated listening.

More Parents, pouring rain, and Portland -- Discovery

When I walked into the intensive care unit early Monday morning, I knew I would hate what I saw. My mother is among the least patient patients on the planet – something she shares with many other medical professionals. But lying in the hospital bed, just 12 hours removed from surgery and general anesthesia, she looked passive to me. I didn’t know this Virginia, and I didn’t understand how this came to be. I read the monitors and saw that her vital signs were fine. The burbling of the chest suction, the beeping and whirring of the various infusion pumps and all of the machinery of medicine were distracting both my mom and me. The ICU nurses assured me that she was recovering remarkably quickly from an invasive and serious surgery.

Her surgeon went into great detail about the circumstances of her illness, surgery, and prognosis. I asked him questions. And yes, it was pretty much the shorthand you see here. Talking with surgeons is better if you keep it terse. Surgeons know how to cut. Diagnosis, talking and compassion is better left to other medical professionals.

Me: Diseased gall bladder?
Surgeon: Yes, very.
Me: Cause? Possible malignancy? (He was a surgical oncologist. He would know.)
Surgeon: Very doubtful. I’ve done a lot of these. I didn’t see anything to make me concerned.
Me: Possible mass on her liver?
Surgeon: No, a liter and half of pus.
Me: Pus? (!!)
Surgeon: Yes, your mother’s gall bladder was necrotized. The bladder was probably decaying in her for three to six months before it perforated. (For you, gentle readers, read “gangrenous” for “necrotized” and “exploded” for “perforated.” Think of a dead, exploding “Chestburster” stage of the xenomorph in “Alien” for my internal reaction. Outside, stoic: I’m talking to a surgeon, remember? )
Me: So what did you take out?
Surgeon: Well, because her gall bladder was so diseased, I had to make a large incision along the length of her abdomen, retract her abdominal muscles, remove pus and the diseased gall bladder, and clean and cauterize any other possible sites of infection, and lavage all the remaining pus from her abdominal cavity. I left part of her gall bladder attached to the base of her liver.
Me: Wow. That’s a lot of surgery for an 82 year-old woman.
Surgeon: Yes, it is. She had a very sick gall bladder.
Me: So, what do you think her recovery will be?
Surgeon: She’s a tough old bird. (A unique and accurate description for my mother that seems offensive but isn’t.) She had no co-morbidities and her vitals were strong throughout the operation. If we can avoid sepsis (of course, there has to be more rotting and pus), I’d say she’ll be fully recovered in about six months.
Me: OK. What about the next few weeks? (I’m venturing into dangerous territory here, asking a surgeon for a medical prognosis, and I know it.)
Surgeon: Oh, she’ll need a lot of care, probably in a skilled nursing facility, for up to three months. Assistance with moving from the bed, walking, bathing, care of her drains and chest tube: that kind of thing.
Me: Wow. OK. Thanks.
Surgeon: You’re welcome.

Well. That put everything in perspective. My mom had been ill for a long time. But I knew this: she’d claimed for ten years that old age had forced a change in her diet, and, loving son that I was (and am) accepted this as gospel. Clearly, something else was the cause of the change. The “something else” was that her gall bladder had failed, and had been failing for a very long time. Without providing bile, Mom wasn’t digesting fat effectively. Which lead to a variety of unpleasant side effects that Mom had catalogued in our conversations for, well, about ten years.

So, the first revelation: Listen to your body. Get medical attention. If the first diagnosis doesn’t fit, keep at the process until the diagnosis and treatment actually correct the problem. If the problem is with someone you love, gently but firmly convince them to follow the above process. General medical treatment is a lot more pleasant than surgery and recovery in an ICU.

Now, aside from being able to joke about rotting from the inside with my mother and the hospital staff, I knew two things: One, Mom was going to be OK. I now understood why she looked the way she did in the hospital bed, and I knew that her condition would improve. Two, I could do something. Mom was going to need more attention than I would be able to provide (because G2 and my work, while allowing – and encouraging and supporting -- me to attend to Mom and her needs, weren’t really going to be happy if I were to move to Mt. Angel/Silverton, Oregon for the next three to six months). So I went in and talked with my mother, and the ICU nurses, and left them to make my to-do list. And started to work.

Parents, pouring rain, Portland

So if I had any readers, I’ve surely lost you by now. I’m still writing up dinner, even though I’ve successfully worked off the weight I must have gained that night.

Please forgive me, dear readers, for I have sinned. It’s been over three weeks since my last entry, and I have no good excuse. Well, I sort of have an excuse. I’ve spent most of the last two weeks in and around Portland, Silverton, and Mt. Angel, Oregon, attending to my mother after she underwent emergency gall bladder surgery. But let me proceed with the latest shaggy dog stories.

So – I’m recovering from a very fun Blowoff on MAL weekend. Our dear friend R was in town from Manhattan. We hadn’t caused nearly as much trouble as we might have, so it must have been about 10:30 on Sunday morning. We’re reading the Times, drinking coffee, and talking when the phone rings.

Now, a call that early on a weekend almost always means a parental call, and when one is the teeniest bit tired and hung over, parental calls become torture, plain and simple. Avoid at all costs.

When I saw “Silverton Hospital” on the caller ID, I knew this call would be far, far worse. I was surprised to find that it was my mother on the other end of the line. “What are you doing at the hospital?” I asked? “Didn’t you get my messages?” Her voice was full of pain, confusion, and loneliness. I reached for the keyboard, a pack of cigarettes, and shushed R and G2.

First from my mother, and then from the nurses on her unit, my mom’s medical situation was made clear to me. She had experienced pain in her abdomen for almost two weeks, as well as some seemingly associated pain in her right shoulder. So she’d gone to the hospital, only to be discharged when it was obvious she was having neither a stroke nor a heart attack.

Now, my mother is 82 years old, and on her very best days she’s not a model of clarity when explaining herself, particularly when describing her pain or discomfort . These were not her best days. Mind you, she was a professor of nursing, taught physical assessment, and expected everyone she taught to be almost psychic in their ability to infer the cause of symptoms and diseases. Teaching how to assess patients’ pain apparently didn’t prepare her for describing her own.

The pain remained, and she became a “frequent flyer,” returning to the Emergency Room. Much diagnostic imaging, and (presumably) some careful physical assessment lead to a diagnosis of a diseased gall bladder. (Just how diseased figures into the story later. Hold the thought.) Oh, and a liver obscured by a mass, which no one I spoke with seemed to know much about. By this point of the phone calls, I’m shaking. With good reason I think. So action was taken.

Frontier Airlines obliged me with seats on the 6:15 from National to Denver, and at 9:45 from Denver to Portland. Mr. Hertz provided me with a car, and G2 and R helped address my anxiety. (G2 is the best, most supportive partner a human being could ever hope for, and R is my best friend and fellow traveler through life as an only child.) With the appropriate mix of concern, support, and shot of whiskey (Baleveine 12 year old, “double wood”), they sent my on my way.

The flight was completely uneventful. Arriving in Portland was uneventful. Sleeping in my mother’s abandoned bed was deeply disconcerting, as was navigating an apartment that had previously been defined by her presence. Without my mom there, everything seemed completely anonymous.

How much of a shock is it to see your parent in a bed in intensive care, looking more like a porcupine than a human being? It was a huge fucking shock. I’d seen my mother in many settings through the 44 years she’s kept me around: professional Virginia, leading nursing students through the maze of knowledge, skills and experiences required to make them trained and effective medical professionals; queen Virginia, holding forth on all sorts of matters, sometimes knowingly, sometimes full of shit; drunk Virginia; saint Virginia; a whole host of Virginias. But I’d never seen medical Virginia, held hostage in a hospital bed by disease and technology. Medical Virginia was something I never wanted to see.

I never want to see it again, after having seen it.

There’s more to come on the medical front.

I haven’t spent two weeks in Oregon in over ten years. I’ve never had to provide post-operative care to a parent. And it’s been well over twenty years since I’ve been in Oregon during the suicide months of January or February.

I wasn’t surprised to find rain. That’s a given. But most of the time, the storms that blow in from the Pacific across Oregon do so pretty quickly, with a solid shot of rain and wind, then showers, and finally a break between storms.

That’s not the current weather pattern: this year, the storms just seem to keep coming, and the rain is both more constant and much heavier than usual. The two effect of this new pattern are: it’s always damp. Not just a little damp, but soaking, bone chilling damp. And people are both tired of the weather and are constantly talking about the rain, cold and fog.

(Oregonians on the whole don’t complain. Well, they do. But not directly. Think of Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” with fewer Lutherans and more talk about rain than snow. You’ve got the picture.)

Finally, Portland: There will be much more on Portland, and specifically about retail therapy and restaurants. Nordstrom, Gotham Building Tavern, Family Supper, and Blue Hour – these are some of the things that helped me stay focused and calm while I was attending to my mother.

Part Three: The Eating - the First Two Courses

(This is coming in fits and starts. Yes, this dinner took place a month ago. My apologies.)

G2 artfully uncorked the Goerg champagne. There was a pop, and while I ducked, there was no need to. (The DP is a professional. I teeter on the brink of being a drama queen.) He poured, we toasted to friendship, the end of the year, and the start of a new one. And then we sat to a table full of oysters – eight for each of us. Champagne and oysters: simple, rich, complex. The champagne actually tasted like real wine, with structure, and interesting yeasty flavors. The oysters were briny, with that perfect slippery texture, and the mignonette a perfect final note. Champagne was brought to the lips – and the bubble tickled our lips and noses.

Once we finished the first course, we paused. Out of necessity – the second course had to go directly from the stove to the table. So the prepared pears, fois gras, and nuts were pulled out; sauté pans heated; and butter melted. The pears went in first, and I quickly carmelized them, threw in some hazelnut pieces, and poured an ounce of cognac in the pan. A quick toss, a hurried call for a match (the chef’s trick of flaming off of the stove’s burner failed, much to my dismay) and the pears were finished.

I put the fois gras in the other pan. There’s a certain irony in putting fat in a pan full of hot fat, but that’s how one cooks fois gras. The pan has to be really hot to seer the liver, but you can’t linger. If you do, the goose liver quickly becomes a puddle of very expensive fat. It takes about 45 seconds a side to seer the liver, and only a few more to melt the liver. I avoided melting the liver, and quickly moved it from pan to cutting board.

I sliced the seered liver, placed slices between slices of pear, and spooned the liquid and hazelnuts from the pear pan over the top of the pears and fois gras. G2 opened the Palatum and poured.

There might b a picture of this course, somewhere. What I remember vividly was the composition of the slices of pears holding the fois gras. It looked perfect. It looked like Jaques Pepin or Julia Child had guided my hands. I impressed myself even before I took the first bite. Both V and G2 were impressed, too. And then we put knife and fork to the plate. The first impression was the texture – the pears were just soft, but still had that indefineable grainy texture that pears have, even when perfectly ripe. The fois gras melted like butter under the knife. The nuts added a tiny bit of crunch.

The taste was beyond the pleasure and experience of the texture. I’ve been playing with the idea that balance in flavor comes from variations on three types, or notes of flavor in a dish. This achieved a great balance of three – the roasted nuts with a rich, earthy flavor, the sweetness of the carmelized pears, and the – for want of a better term – richness of the liver. The wine reinforced the flavors of the dish. And it was a big white wine, too -- so big it was almost overwhelming. We kept eating and talking. Honestly, these two courses would have been enough for any people. But I had clearly lost my mind when I was planning this.

The unbelievable whiteness of Oregon

The DP and I just returned from “five fun filled days” in Oregon visiting my mother during the final leg of the annual family holiday pilgrimage. In all, it was a lovely visit, with both parties being civil to each other, and the snark level remained well below the pain threshold (or that encountered at most any gay bar).

The trip allowed G2 to see a little more of Oregon than his first, brief trip four years ago. I grew up in the state, so my views and opinions as an expatriate Oregonian (or Oregonian in exile) are somewhat skewed. His eyes and ears were fresh, and provided both confirmation of long held opinion and some challenging new thoughts.

1. Portland is an incubator of microcultures. Walking through downtown Portland was fascinating. The sheer variety of personal style on display was amazing. The personal statements were supported by a profileration of small, independently owned business that cater to niche markets (and a few larger businesses, such as Powell's Books that overwhelm with the sheer diversity of material they stock). Is Portland a kind of autonomous cultural zone? Hard to say. In many ways, Portland doesn't feel like an American city. And its relation to its suburbs and the rest of the state is far from clear. File this under “new matter for further consideration.”

2. Oregon is amazingly, unbelievably white. That's not suprising for a state settled by Northern European immigrants. That is not to say there aren't people of color in Oregon -- there are -- and I don't even want to start on the various flavours of racism present. The DP observed another odd thing: People were either dwarves or elves. (No feet were examined, so we can neither confirm nor deny the existence of hobbits in the state. Though we did observe one inappropriately displayed set of manicured toenails.) Oregonians were either tall, thin, and pale, or shorter, wide, and pale. There was very little middle ground. What's up with that?

Catch up (again)

There will be much posting. Most of it is catch up. I've been busy.

New Year’s Eve, or a Slow Night In Part II – The Making

A Thursday reconnaissance trip to the suburban supplier of gourmet comestibles with my friend MMF and her steadfast and remarkably patient husband JF secured the goose and the oysters, but the figs were nowhere to be found. So pears were substituted. The menu now looked like this:

Fois gras and pear amuse bouche
Oysters with mignonette
Wilted greens with carmelized nuts
Roast goose with roast chestnut puree and mixed potato and mushroom gratin
Ginger sorbet
Flourless chocolate cake with chocolate sauce

On Friday morning I looked up sorbet recipes. I found a grapefruit and ginger combination that would be a perfect palette sharpener – we really would need a break between the goose and the cake. So make one more change.

There were already wines associated with some of the courses. Cleveland Park Wines is one of our wine connections. Tony helped me select a special Champagne, and knew my taste in red wines to direct me to the perfect Bordeaux. But I was stuck on a wine to accompany the fois gras (Sauternes are most often paired with it), and I knew that we already had a Sauterne paired with the flourless chocolate cake. He selected a big, full white wine and sent me on my way.

So now the menu and wine pairing was this:

Fois gras and pear amuse bouche with Primo Palatum 2000, Côte du Rousillion
Oysters with mignonette, Champagne Paul Goerg 2000
Wilted greens with carmelized nuts
Roast goose with roast chestnut puree and mixed potato and mushroom gratin, Bouquet de Monbrison 1997, Margaux
Ginger-Grapefruit sorbet
Flourless chocolate cake with chocolate sauce, Sauterne

Friday night was time to start preparing things. The cake needed to be made, as did the sorbet. So out came the baking sheets to toast hazelnuts and roast chestnuts. The chestnuts were scored. All were roasted. (None of this “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” nonsense, either. The oven works just fine, thank you.) Toasted hazelnuts had their skins removed. Chestnuts were laboriously peeled and cleaned. Grapefruit exploded into sections, and ended up in a saucepan with shredded ginger and sugar. Many eggs were cracked and separated, and were beaten – well, actually wisked – into submission.

It was a late night in the kitchen.

The DP kept swinging in to see if there was something he could do: the answer, no – for two reasons. First, we have the smallest kitchen I’ve ever worked in. So there’s not room for two people to work at the same time – unless you have a fetish for injuries caused by sharp objects or second degree burns from contact with hot surfaces. Neither appeal to us. Second, a meal like this is a labor of love – and the love of food and entertaining is my passion, not his. So I kept on working at the bits and pieces of the meal, finishing a preparation and washing the dishes. The sorbet set, and when I tasted it, I was stunned. First course completed. The flourless chocolate cake came out of its water bath, and I set it out to rest for its moment of glory. Finally, at 3 in the morning, I collapsed into bed.

The alarm rang too soon, and I pulled on clothes, picked up the Zipcar, and went on the grocery run. Balducci’s, then Giant – and a momentary sense of horror: did I have all of the ingredients? (Yes, I checked the list.) Was this a horrible mistake? (No, I know what I’m doing.) Was this just plain wrong? (This meal was a tremendous extravagance.) No – because more than once both shoppers and staff asked what I was doing, and when I explained what I was preparing, the listener’s faces lit up, and said they wished they could enjoy a meal like the one I was preparing.

I rolled home, and put away the groceries and the car. The DP prepared a lovely lunch, and once I cleaned up, I pulled out the knives and started the next round of prep: shallots, onions, garlic, parsley, apples, pears. Then I set about rehydrating figs and dried cherries. The DP did sneak in to work the mandolin to prepare potatoes – and thoughtfully simplified the potatoes to Potatoes Anna. The goose was cleaned, then blanched with boiling water to loosed up its subcutaneous fat, and was stuffed with a mixture of apples, figs, dried cherries, sage, and shallots -- all soaked in port. The wines were set in to cool to the right temperature. Finally, everything was ready.

Things started moving very fast. The chestnuts were sautéed, then pureed with goose stock. The goose went in the oven, and then the potatoes. There was much basting and checking of temperatures. I made a mignonette with shallots, champagne, black pepper, and lemon zest for the oysters. We showered and dressed. The table was set – with a damask table clothe, china, crystal, and silver. V. called to say she was on her way. The cake came out of the refrigerator to warm up. Wines were opened to breathe. A quick drink was prepared, and the moment we toasted, V. arrived – with her wine, a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem.

You wine queens reading will know what this means. For the rest of you, we’d just received pretty much the most written about wine made. I never believed all the hype – and the price alone put me off the idea of sampling. Now, here it was. The menu was complete

We chatted for a few minutes, and asked if we were ready to start. At the last moment, I suggested the oysters as a first course. The DP and V agreed, and the champagne was opened. It began.

New Year’s Eve Dinner, 2005

Oysters with mignonette, Champagne Paul Goerg 2000
Fois gras and pear amuse bouche with Primo Palatum 2000, Côte du Rousillion
Wilted greens with carmelized nuts
Roast goose with roast chestnut puree and Potatoes Anna, Bouquet de Monbrison 1997, Margaux
Ginger-Grapefruit sorbet
Flourless chocolate cake with chocolate sauce, Chateau d’Yquem 1999, Sauterne

New Year’s Eve, or a Slow Night In Part I – The Planning

Going out on New Year’s Eve means joining the ranks of amateurs. You’re pretty much guaranteed an off night at most bars and restaurants, and the punters are out in force. If you don’t believe me, listen to this guy. But if you’re smart, you find your nearest and dearest, stock up on the finest food and wine you can, put out the good china, crystal and silver, and live large. Which we did. And this is how it came to be.

So to end the arc of holidays in the United States that began with the festival of food – Thanksgiving – and continued through Chanukkah and Christmas I planned a little get together with our friend and fellow traveler V. Now, part of the story here is how you get to a memorable – even unforgettable – meal. So bear with me. I’d been haunted by a memory of my one trip to France many years ago. I couldn’t get the memories of walking in Paris at Christmas and seeing piles of oysters in mounds of crushed ice everywhere. Now, the DP and I love oysters, and seafood in general. So I factored that in. And planned for oysters. Lots of oysters.

I’m also fond of meats that you can’t generally get at the local Safeway. Odd poultry. Game. Really, really good beef. I chose goose for this particular meal. Goose is a particularly difficult fowl to cook – it’s both fatty, and not terribly fleshy. But what flesh there is, is remarkably rich. And geese also have large livers, which when fed a very rich diet, becomes a remarkable fatty treat called fois gras (yes, again with the French). So that was added to the menu.

V. celebrates the anniversary of her birth on 31 December, so in addition to the dinner decadence, a celebratory dessert was required. V. loves chocolate in all of its forms. A flourless chocolate cake fit the bill.

Finally, there are always accompanying courses: salads, starches. While celebrating the Christmas leg of the Holiday Arc in Oregon with my mother Virginia, the DP and I shared a dinner with our friends Erik and Arwyn, also fellow food travelers, here . Where I enjoyed another French-inspired meal that included pureed chestnuts. The night before, the DP, Virginia and I supped at a Portland classic, Jake’s Grill. (And before you get all “avoid corporate kitchen at all costs” on my ass, Jake’s was the origin of the McCormick & Schmick’s chain. So there. ) In any case, there was a fine example of a gratin pommes de terre, and that earned a place on our menu.

So when I put all this together I came up with this:

Fois gras and fig amuse bouche
Oysters with mignonette
Wilted greens with carmelized nuts
Roast goose with roast chestnut puree and mixed potato and mushroom gratin
Ginger sorbet
Flourless chocolate cake with mango coulee

Rounds of email ensued with V (the DP bowing out on the picayune editorial process of the menu setting). The mango coulee was thought to be a bit much, especially as V. had a wine in mind that she wanted to share as a present – a Sauterne. So the mango was struck.