Are We There Yet?

I’m driving to work along a stretch of road that has been under construction for at least a year. Usually as I approach the miles of orange barrels, I gun the accelerator and pass as many commercial trucks as possible. Staring up the business end of a eighteen wheeler’s exhaust system isn’t my idea of the best way to start a morning. Today, however, I’m running on autopilot. Too late I realize I am out of road and out of time to pass the slower moving traffic, which is how I found myself behind the fry truck. In front of me, painted in a four foot high mural, is a pack of McDonald’s french fries with the words “Are we there yet?” emblazoned across the back door of the semi. If by “there” you mean “hell”, then yes, I would say we’ve been there for a while.

Saturday Night at the Campground

It’s Saturday night and there is a definite chill about as the sun sets. Campfire smoke wafts through the air. It’s the weekend before Halloween and we’ve spent the afternoon trick or treating around the campground at the Kentucky Horse Park. It’s also closing day at Keeneland, the last live races run until spring. The Breeder’s Cup simulcasts have been on all day, and Kentucky played football against Florida (never a pretty thing to watch). It’s just the kind of fall weekend that I love. What makes it even better is I’m standing over the grill cooking dinner. I couldn’t be more relaxed. After a dizzying week spent jet-setting to Chicago on business, it felt good to be home and back in my natural element. The whole time I was in the Windy City eating and drinking along Michigan Avenue, the one thing I really wanted was to be back in my kitchen with my knives, cutting boards, spices, recipes and friends. While I love the preparation of a well thought out meal, what makes being in the kitchen fun to me is the improvisation that goes along with it. That’s probably why I like the art of cooking rather than the more precise science of baking. Sometimes it is the dishes born of necessity and creativity that turn out to be the best. More often than not these dishes are some of the best in a cook’s repertoire – utilizing simple, quality ingredients.

Random Seasonings – October 21st, 2008

I’m sitting here, shattered. Forced to acknowledge that something I once enjoyed has been taken from me. I have just finished watching an hour of what would have been, under different circumstances, semi-enjoyable television. My mind, however, shut down during the opening segment after I heard the words “And now the premier of ‘At The Table with Anthony Bourdain’, sponsored by Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey”. God, that really hurts.

Bourbon, Bartenders and Sommeliers: A Rant

One shouldn’t have to visit a rock and roll hotel in order to find a bartender that understands bourbon. That being said, you would be forgiven for expecting the wait-staff at the Hard Rock Hotel to have a firm grasp of the differences between bourbon, scotch and rotgut whiskey. Enough icons of music have stumbled onto or off of stages with either a bottle of Jim Beam or Jack Daniels in their hand to make whiskey the unofficial drink of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. After all, the club was called the “Whiskey-a-Go-Go”, not the “Vodka-a-Go-Go”. Being a Kentucky native, it should come as no surprise to anyone that my main focus, object of affection, drink of choice and favorite ingredient in the kitchen happens to be bourbon. I have a reasonable fondness for Scotch and a new found respect for Japanese whisky, but I do not buy, purchase, drink, partake, enjoy or even tolerate that sugary foul tasting concoction known the world around as Tennessee Whiskey. If your reading this from Lynchburg, Tennessee all I can day is “I’m sorry”. God must not love you as much as he does me.

Random Seasonings – October 13th, 2008

This site continues to evolve – I’ve added a “Tailgating Steeplechase Style” page highlighting the best of eight years of award winning tailgate parties in Lexington. Next year will be a “Party at Congo Square”, a New Orleans Mardi Gras themed extravaganza. More menu’s and recipes will be added over the next few weeks as I settle into a regular routine of updates.

I Never Even Called Her By Her Name: A Barside Encounter with a Muse

In hindsight I must have appeared as a curious figure, reclining in a rattan chair and intently scribbling in a journal, flanked as I was on one side by a collection of empty Hurricane glasses. On the other, by the various disjecta membra of an extravagant shellfish lunch. Evidence of what was, honestly, the more productive part of the afternoon so far. I never noticed that anyone had walked up behind me until she leaned over, gently touching the side of my face turning it ever so slightly upwards, and kissed me on the cheek, whispering into my ear as she did “…and then a girl I didn’t know walked up and kissed me”. At that point I did the only thing I could – I laughed.

Zen and the Art of Cooking: Eric Ripert, Chuck Norris and Riding the Wave

Hopefully the title got your attention. I stumbled across an interesting post today (courtesy of Michael Ruhlman’s blog) by Chef Shuna Fish Lydon on the subject of becoming lost in “the weeds” (see links to both blogs below).

http://eggbeater.typepad.com/shuna/2008/10/the-weeds-resta.html http://blog.ruhlman.com/ruhlmancom/2008/10/the-weeds-by-eg.html

Work smarter, not faster. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that catch phrase. More than once I’ve been tempted to reply “I’ll work faster if you’ll work less stupid”. If the goal to working faster is more done in less time, how does one accomplish it? In my experience, being smarter doesn’t help because a person rarely has time to use brains in a “fire-fighting, get-out-of-the-weeds as fast as possible, do-or-die” type scenario. There simply isn’t time to apply intellect to the situation, one has to react instinctively.

An Evening at “The Lodge” – Hilton Head, South Carolina

Finding a good bar to call your own can be a bit of a challenge. It has to have the perfect combination of drinks, decor, ambiance and people. One that is neither too trendy, too kitschy, nor too much of a dive. You may not want to bring your mother, but it’s nice to know your crazy uncle might be able to enjoy a drink with you there. Once you’ve found one in your hometown, traveling makes the glaring absence of such a place on the road that much more noticeable. While on our annual vacation to Hilton Head, South Carolina some years ago I found just such a place. A place where, unlike Cheers, everyone doesn’t know your name. Truth is, they don’t care either as long as you pay your tab at the end of the night. Welcome to “The Lodge”.

A Tail of Two Snails – My Love of Food: A Backstory (part 1)

Growing up in central Kentucky during the 1970’s I can honestly proclaim to have been raised about as far from the heart of any kind of culinary utopia as was possible. My household looked like any other you might find in a middle class “Leave It To Beaver” neighborhood. Our family vacations up until I was 10 years old consisted of road trips a couple of hours south to Gatlinburg, TN – that was about it. So when in the fourth grade I found out that my mother and I were going to accompany my father on a business trip to Florida, I was beside myself with excitement. West Palm Beach would be reached via detours through Cape Canaveral and Disney World, and I would get to see the ocean for the first time. My mother was as excited as I was – we were going to be staying at The Breakers, the Grande Dame of Florida hotels – and she knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of us ever staying there again. We set out to make the most of it.

A Bountiful Harvest

After months of care and effort, the garden is finally giving up its bounty. Early on this year my six year old son picked a tomato plant that he declared – with much pride – to be his. Inevitably, in a show of the kind of life lesson a six year old is constantly having thrown his direction, his tomato plant has had less than a stellar yield. Now, as the October days start to grow cool and the nights even colder, I’ve taken to caring for this one under-developing plant like I was trying to prolong the life of a loved one. In an increasingly failing attempt to stave off soul-crushing disappointment I continue to tend to this lone surviving occupant of the tomato patch long after its brethren have given up fighting the good fight for the season. My goal is one, just ONE, tomato dammit – enough to satisfy a little boy’s hopes and expectations while giving the promise of a better crop next year.