So yes, I am a lazy, slothful pig. Now you know beyond the shadow of any doubt. Once again, I go on vacation and the trauma of re-adjusting to real life has left me bereft of motivation to write. Even dressing myself has been done grudgingly and with much colorful language. Mostly I laid around like this fine fellow, wallowing. Truly Dorothy P. had it dead on when she said "I hate writing, but love having written."

The vaca was great and I ate heartily of all the goodies the Garden State could supply: fresh corn, Taylor Ham, cheesesteaks, zeppolis, tomatoes, scallops, even made tiny taco salads for the family...along with a batch of my ribs. Such a pleasure, cooking in my damp bathing suit evern night with a Momma-made sidecar at my side. Good freaking times- good times.

Too good- the transition back was what I imagine being birthed was like...thrust out from a comfortable, floaty world- into harsh light, noise, cold, and some ass smacking you on your ass. The hand was fate- and I'be been squalling like mad since my plane touched down.

But I'm back now and somewhat acclimated to this "the best of all possible worlds" (which is to say poorly, but gamely I walk up and down the land, like the Devil.)

Much food and f-'d up ramblings to come....and I'm excited to be back in harness.

After all, unlike writing- "I love eating AND love having eaten!"

So I'm sitting on my Mom's back porch. It's like 78 degrees and humid enough to make all you web feeted Puget people wilt pretty durn serious. The bugs are making that "cheep cheep cheep" noise out there in the scrub pines and only once every five or ten minutes do I hear a car- and that's single car, going by. I'm slightly sunburned, full of filet mignon with sauteed mushrooms, rice, Parker House rolls, two Gin and Tonics and a smoke burning right next to me. There's almost a full roll of Taylor Ham in the fridge and nice fresh Kaiser Rolls to eat it on. Basically- I'm in a really, really good place.

Sorry about that.

Tomorrow I'll start writing about my Jersey trip- cause there's all kinds of interesting and wonderful and strange food out here. Tonight-I'm bushed- floating around in 80-degree waves, lying in the sun reading crappy science fiction, it really takes it out of a body. I know you understand. And if you don't, well....

Tomorrow- why do rich people on vacation spend a hour in a long, long line to get into this rather pedestrian beach house in the town of Stone Harbor, NJ?

I'll let you in on the Springer's secret( and torment you with photos of this incredible place called...southern Jersey. It's so much more than where Tony Soprano vacations baby....

Salvation comes from the strangest places and in the most unexpected ways.

I was having a straight out crappy day, with everyone and everything seeming to be shoving sh#t sandwiches in my mouth. Different breads, different condiments- but the same filling. And they just seemed to fill up my head and heart with the squashy brown sameness of my life. Day in and day out. I was acutely aware of how far my hands were from the tiller of my life- instead I felt like some third class cabin boy back in the bilges, swamping out seawater that just kept leaking in- while others were setting a course for me or worse, there was NOBODY up on the bridge but Captain Drift and First Officer Inevitability. I felt like too little butter spread over too much bread- just a tool...and a dull one at that.

So I stood outside and bitched to my friend Pete while sucking down Marlboros, and growled at people in the newsroom like an angry, but whipped, cur. A sad sight...and it seemed like there was no end in sight.

Then, I'm about to leave- got my jacket on and everything- and the desk phone rings. Tom T. picks it up and starts hemming and hawing about whether I'm there or not (he'd just been subjected to a hearty dish of my funk and like the sweet guy he is- didn't want to inflict me on some unsuspecting potential listener or interviewee.) He puts the phone on hold and tells me it's someone from the I Love New York Deli. Yeah- I'll take that.

It's the owner who called to say thank you for the nice write up and radio piece I gave his joint. "You don't know what you've done for me" he says and I can tell he means it. "No- you don't have to thank me, you deserved it- it's a great place" I says back, also meaning it. We chat for a bit and I hang up.

And it hits me. That taste in my mouth is gone and the world has gone from being tinted in tones of fecal brown to full on technicolor.

Suddenly I could see that tiny but telling crack in what seemed like hopelessly solid walls of my prison. Like Rocky versus Ivan Drago- when Rocky's getting beat to hell and finally lands one good one. His trainer yells "See- you cut him. He bleeds! HE BLEEDS! He's a man, not a machine." The universe had been smashing me all over the place- batted from corner to canvas, staggering and half ready to just lay down for the count. But I'll be damned if I didn't get through one punch, one small punch and cut the cosmos. It bleeds!

It made me realize that all the crap I've had to take and all the boring grinding stuff I've done-all that punishment of bad hours and small pay- let me get to a point where I can get on the radio and the web and tell a whole lot of people about a great restaurant. I could make a difference in someone's life. I COULD use this giant blowtorch of a radio station and website and strike a blow for good. It was one small punch for Dan...one giant ass whupping for all the bad crap in the world...and for my state of mind.

Yeah- it's ain't the cure for cancer, nor world peace, or bringing home two American journalists from North Korea. But you know- life is full of arenas of all sizes. Some huge, some tiny- but they're all filled with battles and blood. Two people enter, one person leaves- to mix my movie metaphors. In this one- I wasn't even really fighting...the owner was the one charging in there to take on a saggy, scary economy...he was the one who sunk his cash and time and sweat into opening a place. He's the hero.

But I was in his corner and he thanked me and that's enough for me. It's a little victory but to a little man like me- it seemed huge. Scale only matters when you look in from the outside. Victory is victory.

So I leave and the first person I see outside, I'm all smiles. "Hey- what's up? It's a beautiful freakin day, ain't it. I'm a lucky, blessed SOB."

Regional tastes fascinate my ass. I've read scholarly articles on how the makeup of the first immigrants to an area have a defining influence on how you like your chicken fried, your pork BBQ'd, if you want fries with that or baked potatos. Throw in the geography factor, regional climate, and availability of raw food sources and you can see how mass palates are formed.

But the great 55-gallon Melting Pot culture of 21rst Century America has been simmering for hundreds of years now (boiling even- and some might say, just like a real stew..."a stew boiled is a stew spoiled"- or at least that's what one seriously burnt out and wobbly line cook told me once, taking a break from drinking the warm cooking wine in his mise en place to educate a new kid. He did indeed...once I figured out I was never going to be a great chef- I got out of the kitchen. I've got no taste for warm, cheap wine.) So how much of all those ingredients that make up regional taste has gone up in fragrant steam?

Now I KNOW that I've come out strong in defense of regional cuisine- I'm all for clumps of humans keeping their meals from being sliced, diced, mashed, steamed, and boiled into some horrific Orwellian paste that's the same everywhere. But see- I'm also just about the most contradictory, loathesome, SELFISH jackanape that you're likely to meet. While I love that you can't get that from here...I also HATE that I, ME, can't get the cool food I want from over the hill and faraway.

So what's grinding my gears right now?

The deplorable lack of fine quality pastrami in this area.

Pastrami. If I got to chose some Harry Potter-esque magic activation word- it would be "Pastrami!" A meat to conjure with cause it's already magical in the way it transcends the narrow rules of science. It's like light itself- with the characteristics of a wave AND a particle. Pastrami is a solid with the texture of a liquid, a glorious and awe inspiring fusion of juice and fat and flesh...and add some mustard and rye- it's the Big Bang in yer mouth.

But aside from small outposts- it's tough to get here in Seattle. That ersatz crap they hawk in your grocery deli, well it's a sham, a menace, a lie, and abomination. There's Roxy's Deli in Fremont, there's the "I Love New York" deli stall down in the Pike Place Market, and on the Eastside- there's GoldBerg's Famous Deli in Bellevue's Factoria Mall. (Which is bizarre, somewhat sad-ass mall, ain't it? Whenever I go there I'm struck by how empty it is and how lowbrow all the stores are. Rinky-dink operations open, languish, and die there in fast-action photography style. It creeps me out.) Those are the places I've found that I can get my 'strami on in true Big Apple style.

That ain't enough. What's with this area? Why isn't excellent deli food a sizeable chunk of our local food pyramid? I mean, do we NEED another Thai place? More Pho? More tapas served in tasteful urban spaces? Sure we do...but we NEED deli so much more. Screw this electric car charging station stuff....what I want...NO- what I DEMAND dammit!- is a federal grant to open pastrami stations all over the city.

Now the only reason I'm not up the water tower with my sniper rifle is that I've gotten some good news- just enough to hold off on my Doomsday plan. I'll have to see if this news...this promise... is real...or if it's just a shimmering illusion in the distance, the product of the last spasms of a pastrami starved mind...which is only there to torment yours truly as he stumbles and crawls through this Deli-less desert.

Tune in tomorrow to my Stick a Fork in It review to see if I will live to bitch another day. Don't tell me which outcome you're hoping for.

I got to admit- if I had to choose, I'd pick the Old Testament God over the New Testament Jesus. The Big Guy in the first book is one tough SOB- he don't mess around. Jesus gets killed and forgives everyone...OT God wipes out the human race like a messy chalkboard and messes with people's minds in some f-ed up loyalty tests. " I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me." This dude really is JUDGE, JURY, AND EXECUTIONER...and ain't nobody gonna get around him. He's like Kaiser Sosse from the "Usual Suspects" ( "killed them, their families, their friends, even people who owed them money...") But with a cool beard. That's a God I can get behind.

Daniel means "God's Judge" ya know- a role I've thrown myself into with a deep and abiding religious fervor. I consider myself "Angel without Portfolio," entitled by my birth title to pass judgements left and right, like a cow pissing on a flat rock.

Yesterday I got dragged onto the Ron and Don show- this time not to be plagued with questions about my strange belief system, my hatred of shoes, ex-girl friends who cut Don's hair, or even that most embarassing of 5 minutes of fame-my reality show experiences in LA and all that happy-crappy. No- this time I was a person of weight and power- a specialist as it were, called in as the JUDGE in the show's "Grill Off" between Ron and Steve Cain, the Chef de Cuisine at Seattle's El Gaucho restaurant.

Ron and Steve were using two different grills- the good old timey-time Weber grill and some kind of electric grill-o-later thing that looked like a cross between a George Foreman grill on steroids and a dry cleaning pants presser. Don declined to participate as a cook- instead keeping the broadcast going as the "quarterback." It's always a hoot watching these two guys go nuts on the air...say what you want about them- R and D throw everything but the kitchen sink into their broadcasts...we practically have to pump freon into the booth to keep the heat down to humane levels for their board op.

Now Ron's cookin I know- he's part of my supper club. We meets to cook and drink and eat and drink and talk and drink and eventually lose all semblance of verticality or higher brain function and end up quivering on the floor, groaningly full of good eats. And drinking. He's a fine cook and an inventive one. El G.- well, it's meatery lives up to it's reputation as a world class, fancy rug joint steakhouse. Should be an interesting match and who knows...maybe Rocky would take down Apollo Creed.

Here's the video of the end of the show- with me doing my judging-thang!

Good God DAMN- do I HATE seeing myself as others see me. Always a shock how much I lean on my skewed vision of myself to get through the damn day. My head looks like Darth Vader without the front part of his helmet...long freaky mask of hair in the back and a crusty feeble face on the front.

But enough of that. That contest just reinforced in my mind that the ONLY WAY to grill is with charcoal. Yeah- wood is a little more purist but the technical problems to me are too much to justify a home cook going that way. Charcoal, baby, charcoal.

Propane might be easier, cleaner, and more advanced when it comes to temp control- BUT- it's got no soul. It lacks that organic flame thing that's so important to the overall magic of grilling. It's tasteless too- and I for one look for and love that smoke taste on my meat made al fresco. And while it can give you great grill marks- the char it leaves on the meat doesn't translate as richly and deeply as that left by the coals. You can do indirect smoking in a propane grill but again- it's too artificial. With coals, you soak your wood and scatter it right on top...and the smoke that pours out soaks into the meat. Indirect smoking with propane is like using a sex toy instead of getting it on with another person. You get your bang for the buck- but it lacks a whole interactive warmth and soul that makes good sex...and good smoking... freaking great.

Don't even get me started on those electric press grills. Handy dandy they might be- but at what a price! They've got the same sterile quality as propane...but they're even more feeble- seldom if ever getting enough juice to give you the right heat. You can't do indirect to say your life and the act of pressing the meat squeezes the lovely, lovely blood and fat juice out of the flesh- and who but a jackass of a diet freak wants that? Forget about good char, forget about medium rare, forget about smoke, forget about getting into the Kingdom of Heaven if I have word one to say about that!

If propane cookin is the equivalent of onanism with a toy, electric press grills are like lattempting to achieve a Happy Ending by looking at the lingerie section of the Sears catalog.

Good luck with that.

Some things can't be improved on, and should NOT be mucked about with those pushing us to some Jetsons' like lifestyle. A cast iron skillet, a Pyrex baking dish, The Beast with Two Backs, and charcoal grills. Do it right folks- don't do it quick or with some monstrosity larded with chrome and LED bullcrap. If God had wanted us to use propane or electicity to BBQ or grill, He/She would have... well he/she would have done something...but he/she didn't so don't screw around with God's plan.

Light the coals, pass the meat, and Praise the Lord.

I meant to vent on this one last week- but as those of you reading this in the greater Seattle area are well aware- it was just too damned hot. Culinary invective is, like revenge, a dish best served when it's cold. Thanks to my inate ability to generate foamy-lipped, snarling opinions about things- I was able to squeeze out some hate at the weather- but it left me limp and exhausted for several days. So I'm just getting to this now.

You a fan of Eddie Izzard? Ever seen him do his standup bit about how England conquered the world through the clever use of flags? If not- here he is...check it out:

He's amazing yes? You MUST check out the rest of his stuff.\

But see- times have changed and flags- they don't mean crap anymore. Everyone's got one, hell, I bet there's some kind of half-assed KIRO flag somewhere up there in the hallowed 2nd floor hallways of power, where my bosses, like Olympian Gods, wander, ponder, and bend the stuff of reality into new paradigms and mission statements like "Dare to be Great."

So flags have had it...what works these days, and works well, is...fast food.

Hell, plague germs could learn from the way American fast food has spread across the globe, spreading it's greasy tendrils quietly, under the radar, till the natives wake up one day caught fast in the deep-fried iron grip of The Colonel or Ronald. I think one of the reasons that the crap food does so well in even the thinnest of foreign soils, while the good stuff has to be grafted and regrafted till it takes hold- is that fast food is alot like a virus. Like ecoli or Yersinia pestis (bubonic plague- my favorite), fast food is a very simple organism, elegant in it's design and function. It's hardy as hell, adaptable, aggressive, and without intelligence or morals- just one simple imprinted imperative: multiply.

Viruses are so small, so low on the food chain- fast food is the lowest common denominator in food....they're unstoppable. Like the Rage virus in "28 Days Later" all it takes is a single McNugget and bam- the most vunerable segments of the population- the very young and the very old, the folks with culinary immune systems already weakened by fatigue or depression- they fall like dominos and the next thing you know, you're holed up in a barricaded high rise, cooking penne pasta while the hordes howl and scratch at the walls- their filthy clothing stained with Sweet N'Sour sauce, their faces mottled masses of peeling chicken batter and party digested french fries.

Europe fell long ago, Japan, Australia, even Africa. The advance scouts of Coke went first-followed by the heavy infantry- marching in perfect rows, sun gleaming on their sesame-seeded helmets. Hell, in Salisbury where the food didn't change all that much since Stonehenge was built, even there, there's a corner of town called Yankee Corner with four American fast food joints sitting there in a malignant clump- fast food metastasized...and they're all busy, almost all the time.

The only defense is draconian...quarantine. Can you blame places like Iran for fighting like hell to keep our food on the other side of the border? Dictatorships know just how fragile their balance of power is...a single onion ring might start the landslide that leaves them in a hole in the ground. And it's not just dictators. McDonald's has been trying to get a foothold on Martha's Vineyard for years- but in a rare coalition of rich as s#$& summer people and hardscrabble but pride winter folk- they've held the line.

Now in the news comes word that the virus has been spotted in North Korea- perhaps the most paranoid of the quarantine zones. Kim Jong-Il has long walked the high walls- fighting against cultural influences considered to be "US Imperialist." Hell- in public people denigrate what I consider modern Ambrosia, Coca-cola, and call it " the cesspool water of American Capitalism." (They're right about the capitalism but anyone that calls Coke "cesspool water" is going to face me in Vallhalla and be stomped to paste.) Kim is a dickhead, and doing his country no favors in all kinds of ways, but given that he has a "beef" with the US (yeah, I couldn't resist. Sometimes a pun is so freaking bad- it's good. Sometimes not. You be the judge!)... he's smart enough to know that only complete isolation from the virus will prevent it's spread.

But it seems even the most rabid McEnemy has had to bend...just a bit. He's allowed a new restaurant to open in Pyongyang. There'll be no Golden Arches and no hamburgers...but it will serve "minced beef with bread" sandwiches. A whopper by any other name, yes? There will be kimchee on the menu as well as waffles, beer, and hotdogs (under another name, rest assured.) Seems back in 2000- the first minced beef sandwiches started to catch on- and now, the hole in the dyke is leaking fast, fast, fast.

So he's forced to try a desperate measure...trying to control the unstoppable, steer fast food into some kind of nationalist corral, put a saddle on a wolf. And he's doing his damndest to spin it...to take it over. Kim is making it seem that he invented fast food as a patriotic way to help the poor, and provide jobs with a "minced beef" factory. He's- quote- "decided to feed quality bread and french fries" to the masses.

Course, irony ALWAYS gets the last word. Unlike here in the land where the first test tube of the fast food virus was carelessly dropped and began the chain reaction... stopping by the new fast food joint is NOT going to be cheap. A "minced beef sandwich" will run about a dollar and seventy cents...or more than half the average daily income of folks in North Korea. So getting your Happy Meal on is going to be only for the elite. Imagine a meal at Mickee Dee's as the ultimate in hip, a statement of power and status.

I don't know quite how I feel about this. I'm no fan of fast food overall (though I have been known to patronize a place or two in moments of moral crisis...I am from New Jersey you know) and would cheer if all those crap stands were shut down and only allowed to open in special controled zones. Think of all those healthy little Mom and Pop places that would spring up as the cancer died out. All that good solid food flesh growing again!

But I do have a dark side (dramatic shock music please!) and there is something in me that loves a terrible plague. I'm a huge fan of post apocolypic fiction- and for me, the near destruction of the human race and civilization by ice, fire, zombies, whatever is the PERFECT beach reeading. And I love my homeland...that hyped-up, dumbed-down, Wrestlemania-lovin, reality show-watching, disfunctional yet beautiful place that is the US of A. I take evil satisfaction that while the US might be shat upon by so many other countries...that fecal matter is made up of a growing amount of OUR fast food.

And above all, I am a FOOD patriot. I love that while the pen is mightier than the sword, the fork kicks both their asses. Make patty melts, not war! Cook Globally, Eat Locally! Hey-Hey, Ho-Ho, Give us Balls of Deep Fried Dough. One, Two, Three, Four- Give Us more of that F#cking Boar!

When it comes to ruling the world.....flags are out. Fries are in!

LOOK UPON MY WORKS YE MIGHTY....AND DESPAIR!

Gregory (Scotland Yard detective): "Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"
Holmes: "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."
Gregory: "The dog did nothing in the night-time."
Holmes: "That was the curious incident."
--Arthur Conan Doyle, "Silver Blaze"

One my heroes (who I've been emulating all my life without knowing it) is the writer Harlan Ellison who is to the pipe-smoking, patches-on-jacker, introverted writer what Scotch bonnet peppers are to cottage cheese. Or maybe better- what a Tabasco high colonic is to a cool bath. Take a moment and check this dude out- WARNING: REPEATED AND COLORFUL USE OF ADULT LANGUAGE. KIDS STAY AWAY- ADULTS- OBSERVE AND LEARN!)

Cool, no? Lordy how I love a square peg that not only don't fit in this world of enforced round holes, but has the balls to rise up and grab the hammer and start working over the hand that held it like John Henry on meth.

Annnnnnnyway, Harlan's standard answer to young would be writers is- get all the Sherlock Holmes stories- read them all- and you will be smarter than you'll ever need to be. He's all about staying awake and alert in life and using reason to figure out what's really going on- it's not only vital to a writer but comes in damn handy in life off the page.(unless you've made that "Just Off the Turnip Truck" vibe the cornerstone of your personality- in which case- feel free to crawl back into a hole and compost yourself!)

I thought about Harlan and about that famous passage from "Silver Blaze" this weekend when I walked past a certain eatery that's pretty much right around the corner from my humble abode. I walk by it all the time and it being a place to consumer comestibles, I've been interested in it since it opened a while ago. It's called "The Golden Olive" a little Mom and Pop Greek place right on 45th. I stopped in once a while back, happy to find a spot within walking distance where I could score some moussaka when I get jonesin for it. It was fine and but I noticed I was the only person in the place. Didn't think much- since it was pretty spanking new at the time. Then I started noticing every time I walked by it- it was empty, or at most, serving just one deuce. I mean EVERY TIME, at all different times of day.

I checked it out on line and found a whole slew of positive YELP reviews- but as you know- I'm deeply suspicious of random reviews without context. I will factor in that the overall tone of the reviews was very positive- even if one person also noticed they were the ONLY folks in the place.

This disturbs me- like the dog NOT barking...on a couple of levels.

Number one- how in the Sam Hill are they staying open? According to Deloitte and Touche, the average restaurant profit margin hovers between 4 and 7-percent, PRE-tax. That's a razor thin edge for a business that has to pay salaries, rent, high power bills, AND provide a constantly revolving and perishable stock of supplies. To stay in business you HAVE to have people buy your food...and yet, there's never anyone in there and their hours are on the light side (closed Sunday and Monday- no breakfast.) I understand it's a family joint, so that's got to help, but still. For every dollar spent in a place- the owners see between four and seven pennies. That's eateries are just about the worse thing you could want to open- if'n you're looking to make money.

One way you can fight that is your markup. It's pretty common knowledge that the food you're getting when you eat out is ridiculously higher in cost than if you made it at home. But did you know it's often less than half the cost of home cookin? (Another reason to LEARN TO COOK AT HOME! Unless again- you stinking of turnips.) But I still don't see how the Olive makes that happen...their prices are not that high.

So WTF?

Maybe the Mom or the Pop involved has a bankroll so fat that they don't give a crap about profit margins. Maybe Pop is sick of Mom nagging at him and is willing to lay out some long green for some peace and quiet. Maybe it's some kind of money laundering thing? Restaurants- particularly small ones- are as good as Maytags for turning dirty cash into clean income. I remember a place in Bellevue Square a few years back that was also always empty and heard rumours that it was a front for the Russian mob. I ain't saying the Olive is stuffed with bad cash instead of pimento...but it makes me wonder.

Second- and this is more pressing...do I want to eat there? Normally one of my danger signs about a place is an empty dining room and a cook leaning on the counter reading a magazine. Doesn't bode well- and Tony Bourdain backs me up on this. Please do NOT give me a home where the tumbleweeds roam, and the leaning and cleaning takes up more time than the cooking and the sweating. Am I going to get fresh stuff on my plate or stuff that's been flash frozen and drug from Sysco warehouses to be loaded in the walk in? I KNOW the pressure on a cook to use what he or she's got...and all the tricks to disguise somewhat elderly stock....but I don't want to be on the receiving end of that little game of 3-Card Monty.

Not to mention- I loathe and detest being the only table in a restaurant. It's too damned intimidating...I end up talking like a golf tour anchor, trying to crew silently, and spend most of the time struggling to remember table manners that I haven't had to display since eating at the grownup table at my grandmother's house about forty years ago. It's no fun at all. I like a crowd- nothing so warm and cozy and private as eating and talking in a crowd. Hide in plain sight, you know. Eating alone in an empty room-creepy. I'd rather have that dream where you show up naked in high school than dream I'm forced to eat a six course meal all by my lonesome in public. And I can't stand waitrons who seem to live to fill up your water glass...they lurk in the corner and then come panting up to your side after each sip.

So- this dog sure is quiet...and I find that, "curious"- as Holmes would say. Any ideas? Any of you Baker Street Irregulars been in the Olive when it's full to bursting, greenbacks flowing into the till as entrees fly over the counter? Ever run into a mystery like this? Am I missing something "Elementary?" What the hell is wrong with me...or it...or both. I pause for reply.

"What a filthy job"



"I dunno...could be worse."



"How?!?"



"Could be raining."

-exchange while digging up a corpse, between Frederick Fronkestein and Igor, "Young Frankestein"-

That's how I get by. How I convince myself to take the gun out of my mouth every morning, how I refrain from climbing over the rail at lunchtime, and how I restrict my nightly addition of enemies to "My List" to just one name in red ink each night before bedtime. It could be worse. And even when it GETS worse, it can always get worser. The human condition might have a pretty impenetrable ecstasy-ceiling, but our pit of despair has a seemingly endless number of dank, stanky sub-basements. Comes in handy sometimes.

Like these days. Yeah- it's hot and Lord knows I don't much care for it, but it could be worse. Was worse once upon a time, for quite some time, back when I slung hash behind the line instead of slinging news behind a microphone/keyboard. And it's my brothers and sisters in checks that I'm thinking of these days as everyone, EVERYONE I meet is bitching about the heat. (Including me. God I'm a whimp. I hate myself. I should just....no, it could be worse. It could be worse. I could be Rachel Ray. Whew...)

Most every kitchen line I've ever worked or seen is basically designed to induce death by heat. On one side, you have a phalanx of burners going full bore, sitting on top of ovens also blasting away...AND- most times a pair of fryolators just roiling with oil and a wide, deep grill station that's been fired up for hours. On the other side, you've got the pass, with heat lamps, mounted over a looooooong steam table that also has been on since the first cook came in to prep for lunch. Between them, sorry specimens of psuedo-humans with all of about two feet to shuttle between being burned or scalded.

Check out this clip- if you've never been in "the sh#t:"

That look like fun to you? Still think you've got it tough lying motionless in your bed, in the dark and the quiet...trying to go to sleep?

I mean - check out these workplace guidelines from PLAPP (coincidentally- that's the exact sound made by a line cook pitching face first into a pan of shrimp scampi) Insurance to protect employees from heat. Have these people ever SEEN a kitchen?

1. Shield workers from radiant heat sources. That's a good one. Until they come up with some kind of glove-box contraption like the ones they use to handle beakers of super plague or reactor rods- cooks ain't never gonna get that shielding. Maybe there is something to this whole raw food thing? No- there isn't.

2. Eliminate steam leaks. Only if you want your side orders nice and clammy and cool. Or if you want to wait an hour for your baked potato. Gotta have steam tables baby-no two ways about it.

3. Use cooling fans. Again- cold and cool are bad things on the hot line. We use heat lamps, not cool fans...because waitrons aren't always Johnny or Jenny on the spot when their orders come up at the pass.

4. Take frequent breaks and schedule in rest periods. Sure- we'll just do that. Hey chef, I know I have a dozen dupes up right now- but I need a break- I'll be back in ten minutes. On the line, the only break you get is at the bar after service. And if you're getting frequent rest periods- then you're likely to be out of a job pretty damn fast- cause your joint isn't making enough money.

5. Do not drink caffeine. I guess cooks could try that one- but I doubt it. You've got to be up up up for that rush and at The Harvest- we kicked off dinner service each night with a round of quad espressos, lukewarm and downed in unison and in one shot. THAT puts the fire in the belly. Perhaps just straight amphetamines might be better. That we might be able to work on.

6. Avoid overheating thru overworking. Members of the jury, Your Honor, the defense submits the following video:

And that's just ten freaking minutes. Dinner service is usually 4 hours.

So I hope I've made it clear that commercial kitchens are almost perfect Roach Motels for line cooks. We go in- and after having our flesh steamed loose on one side, then scorched off by the other side- we are damn lucky to come out again. The fact that line cooks can handle it night after night after night is a testament to the survival benefits of some of our oldest, most savage genes...the ones that civilization would love to breed out of us.

And I hope it's clear that however you're discommoded by this heat- it could be worse. And I'm NOT talking about the rain.

Okay- I admit that last posting, which if you've missed- check it out now for a Portait of the Artist as an overheated Looney was a bit...strange. But it was the heat, Your Honor, l swear it was the heat. Like in "Body Heat"- it makes people crazy and soon they think the normal rules don't apply. That lurking wildness spilled out on this screen...that, and the frustration borne of heat induced culinary apathy.

But there must be some hard kernel of resistance deep inside me- because I did rally and I did think and I did cook. And so I live to cook, and fight, and write another day.

What saved me was a flash of inspiration- the memory of a dinner I had in Seattle about a year ago and it reminded me of what could be, and was, the perfect thing to eat in this imperfect heat hazy day.

. Grilled zuchini and squash with pine nuts, mint, and feta cheese. Give this a shot:

1. You slice your zukes and squash lengthwise, oil em up lightly and grill em carefully. You want good markings and some char, but not leave them totally limp.

2. Slice them on the bias and chill them down while you make up the dressing. Don't dally overmuch or the veg will get soggy.

3. Chop up a big bunch of fresh mint after you strip off the stems. Chop it up nice and fine and add it to:

4. A goodly handful of lightly toasted ( oiled, on a cookie sheet, at about 350 until just brown) pine nuts, a nice splash of good quality olive oil) and some crumbled feta.

5. Stir that around with your hands and then then toss in the zukes and and squash and go to town.

Sure, you have to use the grill, but not for long- and the juice in the veggies, combined with that cool mint and smooth olive oil more than make up for the heat. Pine nuts and the cheese offset each other- a little woody goodness and a little bit.

Wash it down with some super cold English Scrumpy Jack cider over ice- and you'll start to feel like a human again. But you still don't want the cat sitting on your chest.

And here's another one that I love- that I did late last night while unable to sleep: Sea Scallop Ceviche with Avocados::

Ingredients:

1/4 lb very fresh, cold sea scallops (2 to 3 sea scallops), muscle removed, finely diced
1 Tbsp freshly squeezed lime juice
1 tsp balsamic vinegar
1/2 avocado, preferably Hass, peeled and finely diced
1 1/2 tsp seeded, minced jalapeno pepper
1 Tbsp thinly sliced chives
2 tsp thinly sliced cilantro leaves
1/2 tsp kosher salt
6 grinds of black pepper from a mill
1 Tbsp olive oil

Directions (You'll freaking love this- its bloody easy and requires- NO HEATING!)

PUT all ingredients in a medium mixing bowl and gently but thoroughly toss. Cover and let marinate in the refrigerator for about half an hour and then- dig in. It's the essence of cool (like Zoolander's the essence of water is wet!)

Take those two offerings as an apology for the last entry's outrageous, self-indulgent whining. As for all the rest of my outrageous, self-indulgent whining- well- you're just going to have to put up with that. "I yam what I yam and that's all that I am" to quote the great man.

From the all knowing Wikipedia:

"Hyperthermia: Heat stroke or heat prostration. An acute condition where the body absorbs more heat than it can dissipate. Victims may become confused, may become hostile, often experience headache, and may seem intoxicated."

I've got another symptom to add to that list- may experience bizarre thoughts and feelings about food. Stick that one on the definition and that's me right about now. Confused, hostile, headachey, drunk-ish and still trying to forget a febrile fantasy of dumping pint after pint of Ben and Jerry's into my bathtub and climbing in. What's really disturbing is only half of me is disgusted at the thought- the other thinks it would be just grand.

Ninety degree temperatures just don't agree with me in the least, unless I have a large body of ocean right at hand. I've always been a cold weather kind of guy. I like and can stand the cold much better than the heat. After all, while you can always throw on another sweater or snug down under another comforter in the cold...you get to a point in the heat where you're down to the bare epidermis- and you've got nowhere to go. We built up this crazy MouseTrap of civilization to keep warm, the tools are endless. The heat? All we've got are fans (which come on now- they're pretty damn feeble aren't they), ice cubes (which spoil good Scotch and you can't climb inside one...well, not and stay for any length of time) and cold showers (which leave your couch damp and keep you cool for about 10 minutes.) It's pathetic. Cold is the angel on our shoulder, spurring us to greater and greater technological and sociological achievement. Heat is the devil...it breaks us down to naked animals, turns us against the slightest touch of a loved one at night, and leaves us panting about and snarling.

The one thing we do have- the only weapon in this war against heat, our sole safe Swelter Shelter is...central air conditioning. Central air is the summit of man's achievements in my opinion, screw landing on the moon. Yeah, yeah, yeah- we got ballpoint pens and tang and a nifty conspiracy theory out of Apollo 11, but AC- now that's one giant freaking leap for mankind. . I think Kevin Smith put it best when Jason Lee's character in "Dogma" dials the thermostat allllll the way down and says " "No pleasure, no rapture, no exquiste sin greater than central air."

Hell yeah!Give me Freon or Give me Death!

But here in the Pacific Northwest- we don't got it. We are expected to draw on our hardy Pioneer Spirit to deal with the infrequent summer heat waves, and that's cold comfort for a Jersey boy like me. So I sit and stew and entertain strange and terrible and conflicted thoughts about food.

I troll the aisles of the QFC and looking at the marbled beef, or even the juicy pork "the paragon of summer food" and like Hamlet, all I can think is "what is this quintessence of dust." Pork delights me not, no, nor beef or lamb or chicken either. The idea of willfully increasing the heat in my domicile is abhorrent to me. Pasta is too heavy and requires boiling water. Even the most delicate dover sole- too hot and the sound of flesh popping and crisping in hot butter is too much like what I'm going through. Can't do it.

Ditto grilling. I've been grilling every night since the kidney stone loosened it's grip on me and I've been hungry again. It's great for temperatures under 82- but over- sorry, too many BTU's in the air.

I could eat out! Or order in! But I'm damn near broke and saving up for the wagon loads of Taylor Ham I will be consuming in New Jersey in 20 days- so that's out.

I'm so desperate I begin thinking about veggies. Raw snap peas, salads, carrots. But I had a salad for lunch and while it came with no loathsome associations, it was less than satisfying. Fruit- sure, I can do that...plums, peaches, melon. Again- satisfying but more like drinking than eating. Not even a 3-Minute Abs workout for my incisors. This blasted heat has already reduced me to an animal-and so- I'm not going to give up the joy of rending and tearing with my teeth.

So I try to nap, and dream of ice cream baths, or a body sized plastic sheath filled with that cheap colored sugar water that you freeze in the icebox. And when I wake- that's what I have for dinner. I eat a pint of gooey, semi-melted "Magic Brownie" flavor ice cream, sitting naked on my couch, hissing at my cat if she tries to lie down next to me, and keeping track of how many times beads of sweat actually fall off my bicep. And trying to write this entry while watching the "Midnight Sun" episode of the Twilight Zone... which if you're interested- here it is- it's a classic:

I'd say I'm pretty well down the road to being confused, hostile, and intoxicated, wouldn't you?