Wednesday, June 22, 2011

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree.."

A few weeks ago, I called a holiday for myself which corresponded to a Saturday on which Blaine had done the same.  Initially we had plans to travel with another couple to a local casino for some event called "Indian Bingo" or some such.  Prospects of winning a gigantic jackpot attracted us to the idea.  In the eleventh hour, the other couple backed out of the trip.  This gave rise to our query: did we really, I mean really want to drive down there for a 7 hour bingo game?  After all, we were both off. So this was the stipulation: if we don't do what we had initially planned  for this rare free Saturday on which both of us had successfully dipped below the radar, we would need to accomplish something more beneficial than discovering hidden channels listed in the cable "On Demand" menu.  Blaine had been contending for a while with a problematic backyard.  I understand it had once been a stellar outdoor room, yet through a chain of events including a tremendously cold, freezing winter, the paradise had come to resemble the inner sanctum of Fred Sanford's digs in TV-land (that's his assessment, not mine).  Over time, the debris had been cleared away.  The center of the backyard features a concrete paved area in the middle of which is a square planting bed.  A fabulous palm tree lives in its center.  Around it was a hodgepodge of various plants and such.  The plan for the day: transform this section of the backyard into an extension of the patio sitting area where we both enjoyed spending time.  Blaine was already on a planting spree: pots and planters long retired had their pensions cut and were pressed into service again: petunias, evergreens, and a host of other plants to add color and personality.  So too this palm tree bed.  Years ago, I had made a raised bed in my own courtyard by using retaining wall blocks.  It had saved me the effort of plowing up the earth to achieve the depth for planting.  A load of blocks and 4 Canna Lilies later, we were dragging our injured push cart across the parking lot back to the vehicle (of course I had to select the one with the busted wheel to transport 2 tons of cast cement).  We excavated the random plants from around the palm tree, set out the blocks in three neat, interlocking rows, then carefully unstacked them, spread beads of cement, then re-stacked.  The mini wall framed the bed and gave the area a finished look.  Several bags of top soil  provided a happy planting area for the new Cannas as well as some of the salvaged flora.  While the bed was coming into its own, we moved our attention to the rest of the patio: cleaned, rearranged, repositioned.  The result: three unique sitting areas in one extended room full of plants.  Into each planter: a bamboo Tiki torch.  After all, the proper outdoor room requires the proper outdoor lighting.

"Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, through caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea."               

Several times through the week, we will meet for a light something for dinner after work, which for both of us is usually late.  Weekends have shorter days and often leave some room for the extra special: meals enjoyed in private prepared by either or both of us.  When the temperatures are hot, or if it's pouring rain, we eat indoors, but on the nicer days, we're outside in the rejuvenated greenhouse, especially for breakfast.  Last weekend, I made Saturday night dinner and Blaine prepared Sunday breakfast.  Saturday evening was the prelude to Father's Day, so Rousses was packed with conscientious worshipers of Dad preparing to grill -- no express lanes open, naturally.  I was planning a light summertime dinner: tortellini with basil pesto, a Romaine salad with walnuts and ramen noodles dressed with a sweet/sour vinaigrette.  The overfilled grocery store had brought me late back home and caused me to run slightly later for my anticipated 6pm arrival in Broussard.  Everything fell into place however, as I unpacked and got started on dinner.  Being late makes me nervous, and when I'm nervous in the kitchen weird things happen.  All went smoothly until I had all the pesto bits in the blender.  Although the ingredients were grinding away nicely, I felt I had to speed along the process just a bit.  Crunch!  I had destroyed Blaine's favorite bamboo spatula I thought would be keen to use as a tamping device for the fresh basil leaves.  As retribution, the Universe caused my hand to slip up the handle of the hot skillet whose interior I was wiping clean of nut and ramen noodle debris in preparation to saute the chicken tenderloins to sit atop the pasta.  The side of my middle index finger knuckle was effectively singed.  On the bright side, no slivers of bamboo had ruined the bright green sauce, my finger really didn't hurt (that much), and we both enjoyed our lighter side dinner.  Before we retired to the living room to enjoy our Black Magic Napoleons from the Rousses bakery, we took a trip to the Broussard Albertson's in search of breakfast fare as well as something from Red Box.
Blaine makes eggs in a way we had discovered last Christmas Day at Hilary's (Channeling Ina: read her blog!).  She had prepared the most fabulous eggs in ramekins baked in a bain marie and seasoned perfectly with herbs, garlic, and butter.  If you like soft boiled eggs this is the way to do them without having to fuss with the shells.  No polite cracking with the bottom of a tiny spoon or the typical Teutonic knife decapitation method I use, a technique espoused in my family passed down from my German grandfather ("I wish he wouldn't do that.  It's so impolite").  The only variation Blaine uses is that the cooking is done in a toaster oven instead of the regular oven, and there's no bain marie.  With the proper timing, the yokes come out runny, but if the eggs are left in to set, it's still a tasty dish.  At Albertson's, Blaine found a giant fruit bowl with a generous amount of berries among the melon slices, shredded cheese, grits, bacon, and Texas toast. Upon our return to the house:  movie, chocolate Napoleon, and the remainder of a quiet evening amid the flickering Tiki torches.  
I was looking forward to the ramekin eggs.  "Shrimp and Grits!" Something completely unexpected.  It's considered truly Southern, shrimp and grits, but it's really something more of a treat than a staple.   "I was thinking about what to do with the grits, and shrimp came to mind," he said.   When I cook, I have recipes in my head.  I generally know what I'll be using, how much to use and what techniques to follow.  Blaine is a visual artist.  He cooks like he paints.  He sees what he has and adds what he needs, and it works out.  In German, we'd say er kocht nach Schnauze -- he cooks by his nose.  I love watching him cook and it's fun working as his sou chef.  His shrimp and grits were prepared with standard grits cooked with milk and thickened with grated cheese.  He rendered a generous quantity of peppered bacon and reserved the grease to cook the shrimp.  Shrimp and crumbled bacon were served in bowls atop the cheesy grits.  Ramekin eggs, shrimp and grits, and a sweet fruit salad enjoyed al fresco with plenty of Louisiana coffee drunk from colorful mugs.  We are both tremendously busy throughout the week.  When things slow a bit on the weekends, we are afforded a gift of free time to be savored bite by bite like a costly truffle.  Sitting back and looking out at the beautiful green space, I have come to realize that I don't have to be the Emperor of China to know I am one of the luckiest men alive.  
     
         

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