That's what we in the culinary world call an ostrich egg. An eccentric Italian chef cooked it on Iron Chef America just now during the Battle "Cobia," which is apparently some kind of fish. Simply awe inspiring.
And yes, I would say that this week marked my official entry into the culinary world, as I did cook two roasts with varying but generally successful results. For those who attended the shindig Monday, first of all, thank you for making it a success. Second, I'm sorry, because the second one I made was certainly better. I only apologize because I'm the only one who gets to eat the delicious roast beef sandwiches I'm sure will be made out of the left-overs.
I would post pictures of the roasts if I had any; instead, I'll create a segue.
It's a Jesus Cow!
Speaking of Jesus, it was his birthday yesterday (See? Segue. Awesome.), or so popular consent would indicate. I mean, of course Jesus wasn't actually born on the 25th of December, but who am I to want ruin a tradition that creates a sense of a true, divinely pure joy in so many people over a technicality? At the very least it's worth it to see the Snoopy dance every year.
Ultimately, the Christmas season seemed to fizzle out without much of splash this year. Maybe it was the impending apocalypse of the economy, or maybe it was just that I didn't watch as much television this season, but something seemed...subdued? I didn't even realize I hadn't done any holiday shopping until Christmas Eve afternoon, the point when it was impossible for me to get anywhere near the local shops until after Christmas (because I'm doing all local shopping this year. Support your community people! Best Buy/Wal-Mart/Big Box Store #A004D2 doesn't need that much help). I'd like to get over to Lark/Jay Streets.
Maybe my unusually mellow reaction to this king of holidays is due to the fact that I'm just getting older (my back was killing me whilst skiing the other day; oy vey). It's a ritual I suppose for people to remorse over the realization of their wilting, and any ending is a good trigger for this feeling (it's December; O hai, OhNine!), but I never really look back on my youth with the same sense of innocence and wonder that is found in your favorite song of general nostalgia (see: Vitamin C's "Graduation Song;" can you find any song less committal or more vague about the ideals of childhood than that one?). Some would say it's because I act like I'm half my age, but I think it's more my outlook on the future. As Eugene Hutz of Gogol Bordello said: "There were never any good ol' days, they are today; they are tomorrow; it's a stupid thing we say, cursing tomorrow with sorrow".
Ultimately, there was something rather special in the subtlety with which Christmas arrived for me this year, and I do think it symbolizes a change in my perception from last year. I don't think it's maturity really, just a change in perception.
Christmas is an event. It brings things that no other day can. But then again, so is Friday; so was last Sunday. Every day is an event, it has it's share of occupational and emotional events that make up a 24 hour span; 7 of these make up one week, and approximately 4 of these makes up a month, and 12 of these make up a year, and so on. What's the point of this old man's rambling? Mostly, to say that I'm looking forward to tomorrow just as much as I was looking forward to Christmas. I'm diving headfirst into a world unknown.
Basically, I'm looking forward to my days of wilting.
There's a man in Oneonta named Chuck (I don't want Pushing Daisies to die either. Mostly because I'm in love with Olive Snook. But I digress). If I had to guess, I would say he's something around the age of 300, and yet the man acts with more youth and vitality than most people I know in my generation. The man started playing the trombone a few years ago and is currently playing in every college ensemble he finds interesting with a trombone he got on a trip to India he bought for a pack of cigarettes a long time ago. I see him at the gym, staying in shape. He's about town, walking around with glasses the size of ostrich eggs, always with a purpose. He's an inspiration in that he's not trying to be great, he's just indulging in fundamental human curiosity, which too often gets lost after basic adulthood is reached.
I like that.
But I digress.
-Scarecrow
P.S. Gogol Bordello is playing in Philly on New Year's Eve for $38. The kicker? Special guest: the West Philadelphia Orchestra. A necessary show to attend? I think so.
