Have you heard?

Need to build your Springsteen-meets-Garden-State playlist to mellow out to while waiting in an empty airport on a cloudy fall day? Yes? Then check out Coco et Co. Listen to “Slow Dance” first.

The album is five bucks for eight songs.

Foiled again!

This morning I wanted to make some changes to my car insurance policy online. Coincidentally, a tsunami was headed toward Hawaii. My genius insurance company spotted my genius plan a mile away:

"We're sorry. We're unable to process your request.

This policy change is temporarily restricted due to a(n) hurricane in Hawaii. Please try back later. If you would like to change your liability coverages, or add a vehicle with liability coverage only, we can assist by phone."

Three things: (1) the people at my insurance company are apparently very good at what they do; (2) I appreciate them taking time to properly work out the spelling for "a(n) hurricane"; and (3) does their Auto Reply vocabulary insert "hurricane" in the place of "any possible freak disaster that might cost us money"? Would an asteroid shower or alien invasion prompt the same message?

The year 2010, in which I fight the battle of the cockroaches -- and win!

For any of you mainland types with your "seasonal changes" and occasional "freezing temperatures" you might be wholly unaware that parts of this planet are under continuous attack from cowardly, sinister foes, none more sinister than the dreaded Periplaneta americana. Seemingly overnight, the populations inside, underneath, and around my house have reached levels somewhere between totally gross and nightmarish. I had resolved to live in peace with them so long as they stayed mostly out of sight, but they pushed the boundaries of our truce and began showing up in the middle of dinner parties, or while quietly watching sitcoms on Hulu, waltzing casually across the living room floor just to show us that we are pansies and they neither fear nor respect us. Or maybe the every increasing size and numbers was pushing them recklessly out into the world. Ordinarily an insect lover, I knew I had no choice but to get my bug-hate on, or before too long these meter-long things would lift me bodily from my bed whilst I slept, take over the lease on my house, and kick me out to the streets where I would roam forever with the stray cats of Honolulu. (And these cats.....not such a good crowd to run with.)

I summoned all my powers. I would be satisfied with nothing short of complete extermination. First, the supplies: I looted ever home improvement store for miles, loading entire aisles of their most deadly poisonous stuffs into the back of my truck. Then, the attack: I waited until dark, suited up in Tyvek and night-vision goggles, and embarked on a caffeine-fueled rampage that made "shock and awe" look like "Sunday-morning-walk-in-the-park-with-a-puppy-and-an-ice-cream-cone". My trigger finger never once cramped up as I unloaded aerosol can after aerosol can upon the teaming hoards. A fuming, toxic soup of OrthoKillRaidMaxXxtreme soon sloshed around and under our abode. I ignored the visibly dissolving concrete footings of our house and, cackling maniacally, mocked the vile creatures while they, caught off-guard, staggered about blindly, inhaling cruel, nerve-shredding gases, finally admitting defeat, each one carefully, painfully folding in legs and wings, turning over, and ending its despicable existence upside-down. Later, the neighbors would recount stories of a crazed lunatic with superhuman endurance fighting what seemed an unbeatable foe, nay triumphing when others would have surely run screaming in fear. I say simply, I did what I had to do.

This morning's paper tells of strange happenings at the port of Honolulu; of an entire city's worth of roach-bugs scrambling to the harbor, chartering a cruise liner, and heading out to sea, some say to Cancun, others Hong Kong, but nobody really knows. In restaurants, markets, and homes across the island, not a scurvy little bug remains to be seen. Apparently, word has gotten out island-wide. The vile insects everywhere live in fear of a recurrence of the madness that was Roach Fest 2010. You're welcome!

Watching "It's a Wonderful Life" with the air conditioning on is so wrong.

I've finally had to admit to a disturbing trend in my lifestyle since moving to Hawaii: banana consumption. I guess in a way this is okay news, since bananas comprise nearly all of my non-meat consumption. I know what you're thinking: when will the madness end? And what does the meat graph look like?

Lava!

 

 

 

 

This lava tube was maybe the coolest thing we saw. Just a couple of days ago* it was filled with red-hot magma.















*not true

J+K vs. the volcano

We hopped on over to the "big" island for a little while to explore all things destructive, and naturally we rented a house in the tsunami zone just downslope of the volcano. What could go wrong?

With all the spectacular natural lighting, and the picture-postcard-perfect scenes at every turn, I find myself pining for a much better camera, but these will have to do for now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted via Pixelpipe.

V is for Vegetable!

I've been saying for years now (mostly to myself) that what America needs, now more than ever, is more Victory Gardens. Call me a hippie-wack-tree-hugging-granola-fiend, but I can't think of a better, inexpensive family or individual activity that accomplishes the terrifically relevant ambitions of getting dirty while using almost no dirty energy, being more healthy, exploring carbon sequestration and nutrient cycling, getting to know your own micro-ecosystem while making it a better place, understanding more of God and nature....etc., etc....than to plant a small garden.

So while I have a hard time wrapping my brain around giant Keynesian economic stimuli, matters of national security, and whether world leaders will make appropriate decisions at the Copenhagen climate meeting later this year, there is one decision of this presidency that I can solidly support: the tillage of soil that began last Friday in preparation for an organic vegetable and flower garden on the South Lawn of the White House. Publicity stunt? Maybe. Sure, there was a photo op: the first lady with a shovel; the first lady surrounded by little kids. And they made sure the garden will be visible from the street. But when I look more closely at the details, I realize this garden was planned carefully, thoughtfully. First, it's 1100 square feet. That's a sizable garden, easily enough for, say, 200 salads a year, with plenty of time and room for a healthy rotation of compost. Then there's the well-designed layout of the garden: simple and functional, with central pathways lined by low-lying flowers.Those flowers are well-chosen, robust, fast-growing. They will attract both birds and insects, and round out the diversity and ecological balance of the place. (I know, totally designed by a granola head, right?) What's more, the nasturtiums are edible, and the marigolds are a natural nematicide, and the zinnias make a great cut flower. Now look at the selection of vegetables and herbs. Where's the iconic sweet corn (which requires so much space and nutrient input for very little yield)? Where are the giant sunflowers (ditto)? Every garden has them, right? Nope, not this garden. You'll notice that most every plant and variety on the map is delicious, leafy and green, and can be eaten nearly in its entirety, raw, no cooking preparation required. Michael Pollan will be proud. The peas are an exception: while you can't eat an entire pea plant, peas are legumes that make natural nitrogen fertilizer for the rest of the garden. Brilliant!

Oh, then there's the recognition that the White House kitchen scraps will be composted into the garden. And the two bee hives. And Michelle Obama's insistence that the whole family be involved. And this is the first time since WWII that this has happened! Make us proud, Obamas. Make us proud.

4-day weekend!

No seriously, tell me what you really think.

Classes started up again today. This plant is in the genus Arabidopsis. My plant physiology professor referred to it as a "stupid little plant." Excellent. I hope he's that blunt with his comments on my exams.

He also teaches Child Development 101.

Not really.

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.