Waves! Shrimp!

Last week we escaped from Honolulu (a very rare occurrence), rented a car, and drove up to the North Shore where, by coincidence, the best surf of the winter so far was waiting for us. And no, I didn't get in the water, on account of I didn't want to die that day. Here's some video from Pipeline.



Down the beach a little farther, the O'Neill Men's World Cup was happening. It was cool and all, with the 20-foot waves and obviously very athletic surfer-dude-brahs. Four guys at a time paddle out for a 30-minute session and try to rack up the highest score they can, while trying not to get pummeled too badly. Because of the obviously challenging conditions, some guys might catch only one or two waves during their whole session, so there's a lot of waiting and watching involved. The scoring system was a little bit lame to me. A high score seems to depend on how many times you can cut back and forth from the crest to the trough of the wave (typically about three times before the wave closes out). Then you get extra points if the wave barrels over you and you get to ride inside it for a while. My problem was that getting the highest score wasn't necessarily about the most skillful or risky riding, it was only about waiting for the type of wave that would let you get a few good turns in before you could bail out. I thought there was a lot more potential for the guys to show off their style and their skills. Instead, every ride looked pretty much the same, and it got kinda boring after a few minutes.

For a delicious lunch, we went in search of the shrimp truck. This was something we'd been hearing about for a while, and it was totally shrimp-tastic! We got what everyone gets, the shrimp scampi. And no, it has nothing to do with pasta. It's a plate of twelve shrimp, in their tasty shells, smothered in garlicky butter, with a couple of scoops of white rice. And a cold beer. For good luck I got a little of the burn-your-face-off hot sauce on the side. I can't tell you how satisfying that was, after a long, difficult morning of beach-bumming.

If you see her, say hello...

The wifie is off in California (lucky!), leaving me stranded on this crazy island (yes, the very same island where they make "Lost") which can mean only one thing.

It's time for a Godfather marathon!

(I've never watched all 3 back-to-back, and this weekend, I think that's the ticket.)

"I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart!"




Oh, and if you do see her, tell her I'm working very hard and the research proposal is going really well.

(The next day....)

Okay, I know I totally left that hanging. But after slurping up all that pig-feet goodness it got so late, and.....I'll just recap.

First, you have to understand, pig's feet, it turns out, have very little.....what do you say.....meat? on them. Mostly there's bones, and in between the bones is this weird, sticky, gelatinous connective tissue that turns progressively softer the more you cook them. Then, the whole thing is wrapped up in skin. I only had about 3 and a half hours. Based on what I've read, if I had let them go a couple of hours more, they would have been a more ideal consistency for consumption. Nonetheless, I'd say we thoroughly enjoyed them. Even with the very strange, gluey texture (like nothing I've ever eaten), the flavor was soooooo good. The onions and garlic and white wine worked wonders.



What would I....no will I do different next time? Cook them a couple more hours, that's about it. I'll bet when they're completely falling off the bone they'll be perfect. Oh, and next time I think I'll try getting some bigger ones, with more of the "shank" or "forearm" part attached (more meat). Va bene! I'ma drooling already!

This little piggie...

Since moving here, we've been making a conscious effort to live cheap. That means not exploring all the restaurants in our neighborhood quite as fast as we might want. We don't spend as much as we used to on alcohol. For now, it seems kind of adventurous, even fun, a little bit of a game.

I have to admit shopping for groceries in Chinatown usually makes me giddy, partly because that's where things tend to be cheapest around here. But mostly, it always brings to mind some of those juicy foodie books I've read, (Kitchen Confidential and Heat) and shows like "Iron Chef" and "No Reservations." The grosser and more exotic the food, the better. Sunday afternoons, chances are Kendra and I will find ourselves wandering through Chinatown looking for animal parts we've never seen before, exploring all the nooks and crannies of the haphazardly laid out fish markets and trying desperately to interpret the dirty handwritten signs propped up in front of piles of, say, chicken feet or crazy-looking spiny fruit. I'm shamelessly okay with stopping and staring, or pointing and asking "what is this?" or "how much?" My challenge is usually trying to find cheap sources of protein. Fortunately for me, Kendra is pretty much okay with letting me get anything (at least once). A few weeks ago it was some nummy chicken gizzards. One of these days I'm going to get a huge beef tongue and pickle it. But this past Sunday I settled on pig's feet. I found a nice market way in the back that had them in frozen form, and they kindly offered to cut them down the middle for me with their giant meat saw. The best part: two hefty piggy trotters set us back less than 4 bucks.

I was so excited about cooking them I decided to discuss it here. I'll probably even post pictures. I know it sounds completely lame and kinda geeky, but this is something I've been wanting to cook for a long time.

Mind you, I don't have any idea of the results right now. In fact, those happy feet have only been in the oven a short while. There's certainly no guarantee this will turn out the way I imagine....succulent, crispy, mouth-watering pig flesh falling off those pig knuckles. Not all my culinary adventures end well. Yeah, just ask Jeremy about a certain "fried calamari" escapade.

Well here goes. I've settled for a simple, slow braise (should take about three hours). I've tossed the feet in a pot with onions, celery, about 20 cloves of garlic, a little water, some salt, a few glugs of white wine, and put the pot in a modestly hot oven. Let the magic begin.


(Hour and a half later...)

The smells are simply amazing. All that onion and garlic are so aromatic, almost overpowering. I can't even tell how much the pork is contributing to this aroma, but I'm not complaining. The feet themselves are becoming brown, moist, shrunken, softer versions of themselves, but in a good way. There appears to be a good deal of fat just underlying the skin, and I think it's slowly beginning to render out. I predict all this fatty goodness, plus a high bone-to-meat ratio will lend these feet a whole bunch of flavor.


(Hour later...)

By now the sweet-savory pork smells are positively intoxicating. I turned the oven up to 350. A nice dark brown color is starting to develop on the pork skin, and the braising liquid has reduced to almost nothing, so I added a bit more water. Shouldn't be long now....

Today I found a gray hair on my head. Two months and 13 days ago I turned 30.

Coincidence? I think not.

A block from our apartment there's a street named Walina, and every time I pass by I give a little "Wall-eeeee!" (in my head, not aloud, I don't think) and I keep expecting somebody to say "Eeee-vaaa!" in reply. But that rarely happens. Well, not ever.

Getting lost in Chinatown

I've started a ridiculous habit while riding my sweet bike around Honolulu on various errands to grocery stores, thrift shops, surf shops, etc. Before I leave home, I study the map very carefully and plan my route. But I don't take the map with me (because I'm not a wuss) and then, on the way back, I attempt to cleverly make my way back by some "alternate route" on "less busy streets" that is very clear in my mind. Somewhere along the way I get thoroughly lost. As in, totally going the wrong way. The other night, for instance, a good hour after I should have been home, I found myself in front of the Ala Moana Towers scratching my head because the Ala Moana Towers are exactly at the opposite end of town from where I thought I was.

In my defense, I'll say that these streets are rough if you're trying to just go with the flow and feel your way around. There is not one straight street in all the land. And breezing through an intersection I can't tell if that sign said Kapahulu or Kapiolani or Kalakaua or Kealaolu. There are nasty potholes and road construction everywhere and the bike lanes just begin and end with no warning and then you darn well better crank it because that minivan taxi that feels like it's about to eat your back wheel really is about to eat your back wheel.

While the cops insist that sidewalks are for walkers and streets are for bikes, drivers don't really acknowledge this rule. I can count on getting cut off at least a half-dozen times on any brief ride. I've tried to exert my biker authority but to no avail, and only recently have I discovered why: it's not my turn yet. There appears to be an unspoken yet carefully structured hierarchy when it comes to cutting people off, and it's based on resident seniority. The longer you've lived here, the closer you are to the front of the queue in terms of bad driving privileges. For now, that crazy cab driver out-ranks me, but I calculate that I'll be safe from all front or back bumpers by 2081.

Embracing the SPAM

Calling Hawaii home means, of course, that I have to eat -- and like -- SPAM. I consider it an honor and a duty. Else I shall return to the mainland in shame. After just three days here, I felt it was high time to try the delectable mystery meat treat. I chose my first experience carefully, in the form of SPAM Eggs Benedict at Lu Lu's, my favorite neighborhood breakfast joint so far. I was both surprised and a bit concerned when the waitress informed me she had never had anyone substitute SPAM for ham in this dish. (Had I made a terrible mistake!?) But in the end her own willingness to try it fortified my decision.


And the resulting dish was all I wanted it to be. The sweet-salty succulent taste and texture of SPAM complemented the Eggs Benedict quite well. And how can you go wrong with a product that lists among its ingredients both ham and pork. Now that is really living.

So when I found tins of SPAM in an 8-pack at Costco, I couldn't resist buying. Now we won't lack for sweet-salty protein for at least a month. Just think of the possibilities: SPAM scramble for breakfast, SPAM sandwich for lunch, grilled SPAM steak for dinner. Mmmmmm.....

Book your tickets!

After just a couple of days frantically trying out apartments (no joke, one landlord insisted on checking us out on the FBI most-wanted list) while attempting the bus system (great!), we've miraculously moved into a small third-story, 1-bedroom place about 3 blocks from Waikiki Beach. We think it's the coolest thing ever, for lots of reasons: our landlord is totally helpful, the place is almost completely furnished, the rent is decent, it's in a neighborhood we like a lot (I think there are about 20 Asian restaurants within a ten-minute walk), and it takes me 30 seconds to get to the only bus I will need to get to school.

...and I just got a sweet deal on a surfboard.

...and we live in Hawaii. Still getting used to that.

Here are a few pics:

I know it looks like our luggage just kind of threw up all over our apartment, but we think this place is so cool.

"has very low kitchen"

...so I call this nice lady today to ask her about her house for rent, and the first thing she asks is when we want to move in. Of course I tell her we're ready to move in right now. And then, naturally, she asks, "Are you over six feet tall?"

Huh?

Turns out, the place "has very low kitchen," according to craigslist. In my hurry, I had overlooked that detail, or simply didn't understand what that meant. She explains to me that there are low ceilings involved, and with my height, I might be uncomfortable in this place, but I should come check it out anyway (which the wifie and I will be doing tomorrow at noon), particularly because of the other words used to describe the place: "funky" and "charming." Now to those who knew our Oceano house, it might certainly be described as both funky and charming, so I'm already feeling really comfortable with the thought of this place. Aside from the possible height limit, of course.

//

(...oh, and check out that little thingy on the right, next to my picture. That changed!)

goodbye California soil, for a while

I think this humble heap of crap represents the sum of my earthly possessions. Or at least the part that will accompany me to Hawaii.

Oh, and in case you didn't know, moving sucks.

Reason #497 not to move

Chacho's!

This luscious Mexican take-out is a mere stone's throw away (or burrito's throw, if you prefer) from our house. I can suggest the carne asada burrito with everything -- beans, rice, guacamole, sour cream, enchilada salsa and cheese melted on top.

Sweet, sweet unemployment

How do you end your last day of work? Stay out late cavorting with these kids, of course!!

(see? big Anna, little Wiens)

Damon & Naomi / weeds

Always happy to find threads of inspiration and beauty leading away from or toward Luna, my favorite band of 2003-2004 (and one of the most underrated bands of all time), I was was very pleased indeed to spot Damon & Naomi, formerly the drummer and bassist, respectively, of Galaxie 500, which until 1991 was fronted by Luna guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter Dean Wareham. Anyway, sure enough, barely visible, slumped low on the lowest shelf of the listening station, it caught my eye in the record store today, the re-release of the 1992 More Sad Hits, apparently a tribute of sorts to the breakup of Galaxie 500. I'm totally biased, and I imagine for someone unacquainted with G5, it might seem totally pedantic and unmemorable, but for me it is a psychedelic breath of fresh air. Mmmmm....

//

I have TWO DAYS of work left. That means I have almost nothing left to do. My cubicle is nearly empty, nobody's stuffing my inbox with impossible-to-review reports, and I surf the net a lot, while gently deriding my cubie-neighbors with insults that they take all too well. Honestly, I'd like to have more time to spend at home pulling weeds:

Catch-up! 30! Tropicalia! Sigur Ros!

I guess somewhere between selling all our furniture on Craigslist, deep-cleaning the house and yard, and trying to squeeze in all sorts of quality time with our peeps, I've wandered away from my posting obligations. So in an effort to catch up, I offer three tiny glimpses:

1: I turned 30! My wifie and friends did a killer job of making it a memorable weekend. Tsurugi and Frog & Peach one night, barbecue the next day. Naturally, these crazy kids were there:

See that? That's home-made ice cream!

2: Fourth of July, we rented a giant pickup, loaded up the contents of the garage along with Arlo and big and little Wiens, and drove up to the parents' place, where Corr and Brian and Kev and Krissy were waiting for a weekend of revelry. And we wore our swimsuits the whole time. It was, of course, a balmy three hundred degrees and there was much pool time, wii-bowling, barbecue, etc. Kev got baptized and Brian and I got to dunk him!

3: After years of living a stone's throw from the beach, we knew we were long overdue for a beach bonfire. This one came complete with cloves, and was preceded by wine in the backyard (of course), more wine on the patio....er....fence in front of Mamma's Meatball, and a scrumptious Italian meal.

//

On the drive back from the 4th weekend, music-man extraordinaire Arlo shared with us Tropicália: ou Panis et Circenses, the amazing Brazilian collaboration album from 1968 that I wish I had discovered long ago. Having had barely one good listen to it, I'll go out on a limb and say that at worst it's in the running for my favorite discovery-album of the year, and at best it's a work of genius, and perhaps the single most exciting chunk of music I'll hear in my lifetime (aside, of course, from Glenn Gould's 1981 rendering of the Goldberg Variations).

And speaking of genius, I'll just go ahead and hit you with a double. I was in Boo Boo Records yesterday, and came across the new Sigur Rós album Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust. Knowing next-to-nothing about the band, I had almost no expectations. As it turns out, it's absolutely epic. This album shows the band equally adept at minimalist piano lullabies, gigantic neo-classical orchestrations, and ear-pounding rock jams. And those Vonlenska lyrics? Who cares. They're beautiful, whatever they are. Jónsi Birgisson could sing you the Thursday morning paper in that voice and it would be mind-blowing. Yep, my babies are going to grow up Sigur Rós fans. Just have a listen to "Festival" and you'll know what I mean.

Let's get it over with already

As I officially launch into the very last month that I'll perhaps ever live in SLO-town, I realize the emotional roller-coaster is starting to kick into high gear. I simply love this place too much. An evening spent at Spike's, for instance, is almost enough to bring me to tears. I'm excited to leave (who wouldn't be?) and still all twisted up inside because I absolutely hate that I'm going. What's wrong with me?

To make matters worse, close on the heels of this insoluble dilemma is another pet problem I can't shake: somehow I'm compelled to constantly wrack my brain itemizing every last possible thing that I want to do, see, or eat before I leave this place. And woe is me if I leave something out.

Here's the thing: I usually think of myself as a guy who's pretty okay with just about everything, and certainly not subject to fits of neurosis. It's at times like this that I find myself alternately clinging to that guy and wanting to curl up on the floor and have a good bawl.

Ralf und Pismo

Once in a while, I pretend that I'm really into my German roots, or at least aware of them. For instance, I'll on occasion feel a twinge of pride when happening across (read "discovering") German music that elevates me to commit acts of finger snapping, or even head bobbing (cynics would blame the mug o' beer in my hand, but I sneer at cynics).

Kraftwerk is (I know, deep down) a phenomenon one might wisely avoid like the plague, let alone embrace. But sometimes Kraftwerk just works (e.g. with a mug o' beer). Thusly, today I'm satisfied to dredge up something I heard recently on the ever-krafty KCPR. From the 1973 album Ralf Und Florian, it's "Tanzmusik."

//

And in honor of this weekend's beautiful, mellow summer surf, here is my very own California beach.

...and if you look really really hard, you can just barely make out my house in the distance, just behind the....ummmm....sand.

Transpacificism

Ben Gibbard isn't getting old at all. We went to see Death Cab For Cutie tonight at the SB Bowl, and they were so un-disappointing, nay terrific, that I felt a little bad for thinking Narrow Stairs is rather a valley amidst their consistent series of album-release peaks to date.

Secretly, I had feared they would only play the new album front-to-back and exit the stage leaving us sorely unsatisfied, glum, and willing to pathologically re-think all of our relationships since childhood and deem ourselves complete failures. Secretly, I wished Ben would consult me while putting together the set list for tonight, so that I could rescue the band from certain doom. ("Trust me, I know this SB crowd, and they're not going to want to get stoned while contemplating 'pity and fear.' They, like, wanna hear about glove compartments, bro.")

Lucky for me, I had no reason to worry. DCFC, as if reading my sentimental soul, took on all my favorites from the last six releases, plus they rocked out and made us very okay with Narrow Stairs (as if I needed help with that). I couldn't have crafted their set better myself--unless I made them play for another couple of hours. From Ben's acoustic "follow you into the dark" interlude, to the opener for Something About Airplanes, to "Manhattan" to what would have been my pick for the only friggin' way to end the show--the back-to-back encore "Tiny Vessels" bleeding into "Transatlanticism" (which, so you know, has positively nothing to do with the distance between California and Hawaii, and IS NOT even remotely an apt metaphor whatsoever for my impending trans-Pacific lifestyle move)--DCFC delivered the finest performance I could have custom-designed. Dangit, I sound like a fan. Wait, I am a fan. I bought a shirt. Does that mean I'm a fan? I have all their albums. Does that mean I'm a fan? I listen to them all the time. Does that mean....?

Those Nigerians

Came across some crazy 1970's Nigerian jazz tonight from a group called The Funkees. The song I'm listening to is "Akula Owu Onyeara."

...but different.

Conversation at work today:

Me: "Between quitting work and throwing out all kinds of junk at home getting ready to leave California, it's been a very cleansing time for me."

Friend: "Yeah, that must be what dying feels like: yay, I don't have to deal with all this s**t anymore!"

SMD / Napa

Checked out some stuff this evening from rockers-turned-electronicists Simian Mobile Disco. Good solid stuff. I liked "Simple" and "Hustler." Almost makes me want to go buy jeans at A&F. Almost.

//

The weekend was very cool.....er, um hot. Record-settingly hot! But luckily we were in Napa to help Cole and Brianna get married at Uncle Bill's vineyard.

Soon to be a bottle of Caymus near you. Crazy!

Garage, I'm yours (for the next 40 days)

The garage is getting emptier (and yet more chaotic) by the minute!

And I think this is officially the first trunk-load to be launched northward for a two-plus-year respite in the parents' garage. (Thanks parents!)

//

Enough with the ear-catching, foot-tapping new releases already!!! I wanted very much to hate the new single, "I'm Yours" from Jason Mraz, but I simply cannot. I really need to move to some country where "Top-Forty-ness" doesn't exist, just to get back in touch with my indie-sensors.

(Does Honolulu qualify as a different country? Hmmmmmm...)

Chromatics / Truman Pond

Yet another cool thing about our neighborhood: the [mosquito-infested] duck pond.

//

Caught this very good song "I Want Your Love" by Chromatics on my drive home today.

Buhlud! No funnyyyyyyyyyy!

Funniest video ever.

LA sucks.

Lakers.
Up by 24.
At home.

And still lose it?

Sorry guys, you deserve it.

Bringing down the house!

Okay, I totally don't agree with his hair (maybe I'm just jealous??) but Newton Faulkner has that very catchy song "Dream Catch Me" that they play all the time on one of those Santa Barbara top-40 stations that I'm embarrassed to have as a pre-set in my work truck. I usually don't do this, but today I'm a sentimental fool and the blogability meter went off when I heard it for the 147th time.

//

Spent a very happy weekend at home with the parents. Got to impress the wifie yet again with my mad hammer-wielding skizzles as Dad and I totally destroyed the front porch of their house -- it's okay, it's a re-build job. Seriously, nobody can't not take down a roof better than me and Dad. Nice work, dude!

El Morro!

And then there was the Spanish fort. Giant cannon balls, clever little stone gun turrets, open-air peeing areas....what's a guy not to like? It turns out this place we were staying (old San Juan) is the oldest city with the US flag flying above it. And nothing says "old" like a 16th-century stone fort. And let me tell you, this wasn't like those little dirt forts I used to make back in the desert in Riverdale growing up. This thing was serious. Like twenty foot thick walls serious.

And ironically just a little over a hundred years ago we tried to bomb this place back to the stone age during the Spanish American War. Now we are proud owners. Hmmmmm.....

Lechonera!

Okay, I know. My "picture-a-day" mission has failed. But I can try to explain.

I've been in Puerto Rico for a week, and due to a slight failure in communication with our vacation-rental landlord, I found out too late that "free internet" didn't mean "free wi-fi." See, I had intended all along to post a few pictures every day from our vacation (it was our 2-year anniversary last week, by the way!) and I took my laptop along and everything. But, as it turns out, there was no wireless interweb-ness, and so I was stuck with just an extra 6.35-pound brick in my carry-on. So back in Cali I'm left to catch up and present something of the magic that was....our week-long vacation in PR.

So tonight, while I don't have much time, let me just say this: a while back, the wifie and I were viewing one of our favorite Travel Channel shows featuring scrumptious and exotic foods from around the world being lovingly, hungrily searched out and summarily consumed, and we watched food-man extraordinaire Anthony Bourdain wolf down chunks of succulent roast pig-on-a-spit in Puerto Rico. We turned to each other and said: "we must go there." And so it was that we found ourselves, 2 years after our wedding day, at Lechonera Los Pinos up above the town of Cayey, watching a large man hack apart our lunchtime feast with a very intimidating knife-sword. And it was everything we hoped it would be.

Mission accomplished.