The Night the Lights Went Out at Fresh Market

I haven't shopped much at the Foody Falooty since Trader Joe's came to town, but a handsome birthday gift card arrived just in time for deadline-weekend fridge stocking.

it looked like this.

No sooner had I filled my rush-hour cart with a variety of precocious artisanal lettuces and free-range eggs freshly hatched by hens who lounge about their coops listening to NPR all day when, without warning, the lights went out. One minute, I'd been musing to myself that $17 seems high for popcorn, the next, we were all plunged into utter darkness.  No generator clicked on reassuringly. Nothing.

My first thought, naturally, was "I've gone blind."
As my eyes adjusted, my second thought was, "light bill?"
My third thought, as my brain caught up to processing the available information, was "what was it the Mayans said? Was that today?"

Soon, they would finish the artisanal cheese, and feast on my flesh

And finally, acceptance. "So. This is how the end comes. Dying with rich folks."  I turned on my iPhone flashlight-app and began reluctantly tweeting pics of potential looters and the coming zombie apocalypse.

I was contemplating my options. Is a proactive approach best? Do I grab the Voss Water bottle from my cart, shatter it against a nearby shelf, and then brandish the shards at my fellow shoppers who have probably not seen as many episodes of Walking Dead (or for that matter, Oz) as I have? I am confident I can take out at least one aisle of soccer moms and a few Junior Leaguers before impromptu alliances are formed.

See the popcorn in my cart? I found out later it had been recalled.

"Shit's about to get real, mthrfckrs!" is the phrase I'm practicing in my head when one of the cashiers announces from somewhere around the front of the store "CASH ONLY!" and somehow wrests open the automatic doors (luckily, before someone heaved a cart through it -- and by someone, I mean me, because claustrophobia is only the tip of my iceberg of phobias). It was at that point, that the moneyed masses scattered as if Martial Law had suddenly been declared, obviously ill equipped to transact such vulgar currency.

Now we were down to survival of the fittest, and a new set of options presented themselves. Aside from the gift card, I think I might have some leftover emergency pool-cash (in case a hot dog presents itself) stashed in a secret pocket of my keychain (I'd left my purse in the car, precisely so it wouldn't be snatched from my buggy while I browsed), but I don't know for sure. I do know I definitely do not have enough on me to cover the contents of my cart. As I try to recall Maslow's Hierarchy of Need and its impact on the social order, I idly wonder if I can gnaw through $437 worth of Ossau-Iraty before the lights come back on.

I'll never know, because it was then that the lines began to move. I survey my prospective purchases and decide that the freshly-hatched-NPR-eggs are the only thing worth potentially dying for, and I sadly abandon the rest.

As shoppers ahead of me struggle to make exact change, a convivial nature, almost Amish, seems to take over. There are no price checks. Everyone's word, and guesstimation, is taken as gospel. When my turn comes, I proffer my two dozens eggs across the counter. "Do you know how much these are?" the cashier chirps. "I know I have five dollars," is my honest answer (and also, I decide on the spot, the title of my upcoming made-for-Lifetime movie).

"Sold," she says sunnily.

As I emerge into the daylight, rubbing my eyes blearily, I think, it could have been worse; it could've been Disco Kroger, with only Velveeta to sustain us. I pause in the parking lot, blinking in the sun -- relieved not to see soldiers swarming the streets --  to post a few final tweets: "#GnawedMyWayOut #Blackout2012 #FoodyFalooty #MartialLaw

and 
 
#blackout2012 #OhMyGod #IveEatenASmallChild #Accidentally #tastesLikeChicken #WhoHasABottleOpener #FoodyFalooty

How to Make the Perfect Gazpacho

At its best, gazpacho is an improvisational dish.

The first time I tasted it was at a swanky garden party, decades ago -- served in a big crystal square punch bowl and ladled into little square shot glasses. I immediately asked the host for the recipe, and he said, "oh, I don't have one. I just know what goes in gazpacho, and I put it all in, until it's done." I didn't have that level of confidence as a cook or a host, so I spent years (and years) looking for the perfect recipe (Moosewood, Martha Stewart, Barefoot Contessa), and none of them tasted as good as his did.

He was right. It's better without a recipe, but that isn't helpful to someone who's a novice like I was when he told me that. I spent years of trial and error perfecting my version.

Here's the how-to of the batch I made last weekend, including a few secrets I've learned along the way.

Start with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers in about a two-to-one tomato-to-cucumber ratio. I go for tomato varieties with high acid, and a lot of tang, not sweet. (Sometimes I will use all-yellow tomatoes and peppers and make Golden Gazpacho; it's a little sweeter.)

A lot of recipes suggest insane amounts of tomato prep (peeling, seeding, dicing, etc). I don't do any of that. I core them, and cut them into rough wedges (no precision necessary.)

I do peel the cucumbers, and I scrape a few of the seeds out with a spoon (I certainly don't exert myself though.) They get a rough chop.

Here is secret number one: in the Summer, I always have cucumbers prepped  in the fridge, in a little bit of white vinegar, salt, whole (tellicherry) peppercorns, and a sprig of fresh dill. We call them table pickles. This is no place for fancy balsamics -- the plainer and whiter the better. (Fresh vinegar-soaked cucumbers in orange Tupperware were a staple on my grandmother's summer kitchen table my entire childhood, and I've stuck with this tradition -- they are the perfect base for a lot of chilled summer soups, which would likely strike her as a waste of a perfectly good cucumber.)

I chop everything on a big plate -- not a cutting board -- and then dump everything, juice and all, into a giant Tupperware pitcher as I go.

Whatever peppers I have on hand, I seed and rough chop a few, but nothing of any real substantial heat -- poblanos or anaheims are good. Key Largos are the best. Bananas will do too. I chop and add a stalk or two of celery. If a guest says they don't like celery, I chop and add a stalk or two of celery. Gazpacho does not have the right consistency, or flavor, without it.

For herbs, I assemble about a handful of whatever I'm growing in any given summer (and I have small hands; you might need less or more):

basil (I have lemon basil; lime basil; and regular basil -- any or all will work; I also have Thai basil and cinnamon basil, and those would not work)

cilantro
cutting celery (I grow it; celery leaves will work fine if you can't find it)
garlic chives
flat-leaf parsley

To this handful, I add scallions -- then I hold the handful over the pitcher and snip it all up with scissors (no fancy chiffonade or anything). When I get down to the stems, I stop snipping.

I zest a lime over the pitcher (with a wood rasp).Then I roll the lime on the counter, quarter it, and squeeze in all the juice. (Cut the lime vertically, not horizontally, and you'll get more juice.)

Secret Number Two: I use an entire bulb of garlic in about a one-gallon pitcher, BUT I roast off the garlic ahead of time (one bulb, olive oil, salt, pepper, in foil, about an hour in a low oven, until it squeezes out like butter) -- like the table pickles, this is something I tend to prep on the weekends so I can use it all week. If you want to use raw garlic... well, I wouldn't. Not in this. But if you did, for God's sake don't use a bulb. Maybe less than a clove.

If I have it on hand, I add a drop or two of fancy honey (no more), and a drop or two of fancy olive oil. If I don't have the fancy stuff, I leave it out. The flavors here are pretty delicate.

Secret Number Three: I blend the pitcher with an immersion blender. There's no setting on the regular blender or a food processor that will get it to perfect gazpacho consistency -- when it turns pink and foamy on top, it's done, and is ready for salt and pepper. Tomatoes eat an insane amount of salt; it has to be done to taste.

If it needs thinned at all (it probably won't), Secret Number Four is, I add a drizzle of vodka. This is not like the Celery. If I have guests who are alcoholics, I absolutely leave this step out. A little club soda is fine. Then into the fridge.

Secret Number Five isn't a secret at all; it's clearly visible in the pictures. I rim glasses in lime juice and dip those in herbed salt and pepper.
The herbed salt and pepper is: any fancy finishing salt or kosher salt; fresh ground pepper; lime zest; any leftover herbs and cutting celery; celery salt.

I garnish with anything I'd use to garnish a bloody Mary (a lime slice, a Rick's Pick, mean beans, an English cucumber spear, etc).

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Why I Hate Paula Deen 

Everybody's Reading 'Bastard' (I am reading Bitch)

Nick Hornby (High Fidelity) has new short work out, "Everyone's reading Bastard."

Bastard! is the title of the new column Charlie's ex-wife Elaine has begun banging out at the newspaper where she works.

"He didn't read the Sunday newspaper that Elaine worked for, not any more. He'd had to stop. Elaine wrote profiles, features, and columns, on the face of it about current affairs and the arts, but over the years, Charlie had come to feel as though her only real subject was him."

He initially thinks he will withstand the worst of it -- most of her stories have long been part of the family narrative anyway. "Everybody laughed. That's what family stories were -- amusing accounts of the messes and the fuckups. Take away the love and the laughter, narrate the stories as if the characters had acted with malice and self-absorption, and everybody was in a bleak independent film about alcoholism and schizophrenia and child abuse."

Then he realizes it could get worse. It get always get worse. "Bastard! introduced a new and terrible idea...what if Elaine had, despite all appearances to the contrary, actually been reigning herself in? What if their marriage had been inhibiting her? Was it possible that Elaine was only just now taking the gloves off? He thought again about the timing of the request for the divorce. He was beginning to feel as though he'd been drawn against Bobby Fischer in a school chess tournament."

He meets a new woman. "Bitch." Her ex-husband is writing a facing column about her.

Is she a bitch? Is he a bastard? Who knows? As Charlie points out, "it was easy to be nice to an attractive woman over a dinner table. The despair came later, with children and tiredness and the shreer drudgery of marriage and monogamy."

The landscape has just changed now that everybody has a microphone. "Now everyone could get access to something -- a cable TV show, a free newspaper, a digital radio phone-in -- as long as they were prepared to say something stupid and provocative, with no expectation of money."

His mother advises he'd be well served to not make the same mistake again, but he doesn't know what the mistake was, but tells her, "I'll bear that in mind in the unlikely event that I ever fall for someone with her own newspaper column an an insatiable desire to expose all."

An excellent story for Writers and the Unfortunates who love 'em.

Bye Bye Blackberry, Hello iPhone

"I did what I always do with technology: first I resist it; then I embrace it; then I act like I invented it; then I go forth like a zealous preacher to convert the masses."

--Reality Truck, February 15, 2010

My first BlackBerry arrived as a Valentine in February 2008. I have a troubled relationship with technology and it wasn't an easy transition, but I am nothing if not loyal. It has taken four long, arduous, co-dependent, passive-aggressive years, but this was the weekend they finally drove me to iPhone.

Why I Hate Paula Deen

"If you're comforting yourself with the dictum 'Never trust a thin chef,' don't. Because no stupider thing has ever been said. Look at the crews of any really high-end restaurants and you'll see a group of mostly whippet-thin, under-rested young pups with dark circles under their eyes: they look like escapees from a Japanese prison camp -- and are expected to perform like the Green Berets."

--Anthony Bourdain, Medium Raw

I have never eaten in a Paula Deen restaurant and have no plans to. I have never bought a Paula Deen cookbook, or prepared a Paula Deen recipe. (I have eaten Paula Deen pies prepared by others, and they were delicious.) I have certainly seen her shows, and I cringe every time I hear her food referred to as "Southern," as I have noted her fond over-reliance on Southern cuisine's trashier cousins, Velveeta and canned soup.

My mother (a virtual prototype of her target demographic) despises her, because when she and my stepdad ate at her Savannah restaurant, a staffer there told them that whenever a meal had to be comped (for whatever errors or complaints), that comp ticket came out of the staff's paychecks. Now, that might or might not even be true. That could've been a rogue employee who was just mouthing off about his boss. But it left a sour taste in my Mom's mouth; screw with the help at your peril.

Reality Truck Column and Blog: The Year In Review, 2011

Since Facebook algorithms changed this year, easy access to links to the posts here (particularly via iPhone, iPad, smart phones, mobile access) seems to have fallen off.

So here are the links to Reality Truck, the column and blog, for 2011, in one handy location.

2011

Post-Holiday Shopping with Mom...for Baby Grease... 12.28.2011

Car Talk 2011  BFF's car breaks down and we track down a craigslist replacement. No Camaro. 11.13.2011

Little Cuba, or: a Trip to the Suburbs involving a deaf mute, albuterol, INS, EMTs, asthma, and coconut ice cream. 9.29.2011

Rest in Peace, Vlad.  College Classmate/decorated war vet, dies of Cancer. 09.26.2011

Housesitting: Sometimes, Joel, you just gotta say....09.13.2011

The Office Move 9.11.2011

Check Engine Light.  9.06.2011  (Joe's car.)

Niece's Sweet 13  Rude babies nearly wreck surprise party. 07.24.2011

Active Ingredients, or, Summer Cold 2011. 07.17.2011

Bye Bye Birdie It's nearly curtains for cousin's parakeet, Baby. 06.12.11

Mom Talk Pretty One Day Mom attempts facebook and email. 06.03.2011

Hold the Mayo also known as: The One Thing I Will Not Eat. 05.30.2011

On the Half Shell  Reconnecting to oysters. 04.10.2011

The Chicken or the Egg: Which to Kill First  Or, things might not go so well at the niece's Montessori. 03.15.2011

Bitten or, my permanent memory of Jack, in the form of a jagged scar. 03.14.2011

Pink Socks and Candy, the BFF takes a trip to Africa. 03.05.2011

The Pink Tibetan Goat Hair Beanbag  otherwise known as the Design Fantasy that gets me out of bed every morning. 01.03.2011

The New Year's Day Parsley Miracle  01.01.2011

Post Holiday Shopping with Mom ...for baby grease

"Why don't you tell us what you want and save yourself some disappointment?
No. I'd rather be surprised by a disappointment than happy with what I expected."

--Happy Endings

The January 2010 snowman at Bed, Bath & Beyond

Post Holiday shopping with my Mom is an annual tradition. It is exhausting. We go to places I would usually never go, see things I would never see, and hear things I would never hear. By the time we've changed her third cannister of oxygen, I am usually ready to hold my hands up in the same position of supplication I learned while shopping with her in toddlerhood -- the universal whine for "carry me!"

This year, we were both shopping for floor lamps (separately), and each of us had a price peak beyond which we would not budge. As she told the girl at the department store who insisted that the one we liked was not part of Clearance, "No, I wouldn't give that for it. I've been out of a lamp in that back bedroom for three years and I don't care to go another three."

Pickings were even slimmer at the Dollar Tree, where we were in search of red chargers, but definitely not in the market for ...baby grease.

That's what the gentleman to the right of us shouted to the checkout girl, 30 feet away, "Sweetheart! Hey! Sweetheart! You! You got any baby grease?"

Apparently, she heard what I did and clarified, "grease? You mean like motor oil? That's in aisle four."

"Naw," he yelled back, "baby grease", as if his renewed emphasis explained it.  ("Made from real babies?" I was thinking, having no idea what he was talking about.)

Observing her blank expression from across the store, he clarified, "grease like you put on a baby, y'know," adding in a conspiratorial stage whisper, "like for after where he's circumcised."

Clearly non-plussed (maybe not the first time she'd been asked this), she responded, a bit over-familiarly, "sheeeeyittttttt? You got a new baby? Another one? When you gonna figure out how to quit that?" Then she asked if it was a boy (which I thought the aforementioned circumcision would've made obvious), and he laughed, answering with a good-natured laugh, "yeahhhh, I reckon we can quit now."

We never did find any red chargers, but baby grease is on aisle seven.

We also did not buy a single CloseOut Santa, which is unusual, because her Santa collection is legendary, well into the hundreds (like shopping, this obviously skips a generation). I pointed out several, "this one seems nice? He's all in white...Do you have this one?"  Even at 80 percent off, she had no interest.

Finally, I asked, "where were all your Santas this year?" I had just been there Christmas weekend, and there were no Santas, no elves, not even a tree. Not so much as a poinsettia. While the only seasonal decor I allow in my house is a token sprig of mistletoe, hers has always been bedecked and bedazzled -- every square inch glistens with snow and sparkles and moving trains conducted by drummer boys and wise men that whistle and wind through Bethlehem and past the Baby Jesus in his creche. It is no small setup. Every year, she talks about divesting herself of her collections, but my brother and I -- with no interest in kids or heirs and less in seasonal decor -- are disappointing prospective recipients, and the topic is inevitably tabled.

There was a long intake of breath, suggesting it was a good thing I'd asked. And what followed was a lengthy huff about my stepdad and his endless complaints about bringing the decorations down from the attic, the amount of work this entails for him, and what a pain in the ass it will be for him to pack them all up and return them to the garage. It's all true. Every year, he grumbles and mutters from Thanksgiving to January, "Jeeeeeesus Christ, I don't know what we're doing with all this shit... awwww, for cripes sake, I said I'm leaving her if she brings one more goddamn Santa into this house." It's relatively good-natured -- just part of the ambient noise that seems to occupy their daily life -- and most of us tuned it out decades ago, the way he turns down his hearing aids when we're not saying anything of interest to him (which is always).  She hauls stuff into the house, he waits until she's forgotten about it, and hauls it out to the trash. It's a good system.

But not this year. This year she'd had it. "Bitch, bitch, bitch. That's all he ever does and I'm sick of it. Sick. Of. It. So I quit. We didn't even have a TREE," she said triumphantly with a twinge of sadness, as though she'd won an epic battle, but that it had cost her dearly. "Why didn't you just tell him to knock it off?" was my innocent question. This is obviously the Family Dance -- she hoards Santas and he complains. She gets more Santas and he gets to complain even more loudly; the acquisition makes her happy and the grousing makes him happy. My theories were instantly met with righteous indignation, progressing swiftly towards outrage at me for even asking such a stupid thing, and further implying that I know absolutely nothing about how Marriage works (which is one hundred percent true).

"You know I had to run into your father's first ex-wife last week" she said, my cue that the topic had changed and I'd better keep up. "Mom, you are dad's first ex-wife," I countered.

"Oh," she seemed puzzled for a second, then snapped,"Well you know the one I mean. She's married to some bald-headed guy now." Yes. I didn't know about the new hairless spouse, but I know she's the one he left my Mom for. As opposed to his current wife, which is the one he left the second wife for. (See also, our family's own War of the Roses).

"How did that happen?" I asked -- always mystified that in a Mayberry-sized smalltown with only two grocery stores and a handful of gas pumps, my parents have crossed paths less than a dozen times in the nearly 30 years they've been divorced.

"I had to wait on her." It turns out the new bald husband regularly patronizes the Christmas bake sale at my Mom's church, and my Mom had to sell her a Diet Coke. "Did you poison it?" I asked mildly.

"No," she said primly, "And I also did NOT slap her. And I did not say, 'well how have you been, you Old Whore?' which is what I felt like saying, and I didn't tell anyone anything about except our priest."

And what did he say? "He said that was very Christian of me, and he knew it must have been awkward."

I wondered aloud if she'd even recognized my Mom (it's been thirty years). "Oh she knew who I was all right. And she looks exactly the same. You know she was always so coarse."

"Yes," I agreed. "The old whore."

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War of the Roses. 2010.