Straight Outta Athens, GA

In today's mail: number 2 of Skein, Seth Parker's gorgeous handmade poetry journal.

Really really GOOD poems by Sarah Vap, Danielle Pafunda, Joshua Edwards, Natalie Lyalin, yours truly, and many others.

There's a cute bird on the front cover. The Canary has never had a bird on the cover, despite our namesake.

Seth--where can we get extra copies?

Ronald Johnson

From the dustjacket blurb to The American Table (1984):

"Ronald Johnson was born in Kansas and received his bachelor's degree from Columbia University. He has had several books of poetry publshed by North Point Press, and his first cookbook, Southwestern Cooking New & Old, now in its eighth printing, is considered the definitive classic on the subject. In 1976 he opened his own restaurant, and he presently cooks at one of the most successful caterers in San Francisco."

RJ didn't use tomatoes in his red chile, which here appears as "red chili sauce."

Done

I finished the prospectus. Woo! Karen, my advisor and committee chair, will undoubtedly ask for revisions in the two weeks between now and when it's officially due, but I can handle that. The important thing is that it's more or less done, and I will, by the end of the term, be officially advanced to candidacy, which means, among other things, a pay raise.

Hell yeah.

Like Shanna Compton, I am a lover of good writing about food, and I pick up Gastronomica as often as I can. I didn't know there was a Jacques Pepin love poem by Ms. Compton in said journal, though. Kick ass.

*

I am Spain and The Sound and the Fury. Yesterday I was Les Miserables. I don't remember what question I answered differently. In any case, I was really really sure I'd end up Prufrock, but I don't love the British Isles. Don't hate 'em, either...

*

Once again, in case you missed it the first time: SOMEBODY PUBLISH .NICK'S BOOK

*

A bunch of new cookbooks this week. Kamolmal's Thai showed up, courtesy of ABE. I also picked up some remaindered or otherwise marked down books at the UO Bookstore. Mark Miller's Coyote Cafe Cookbook (surprise! he puts tomatoes in his red chile sauce!!!), and two others unremarkable enough that I have nothing to say about them. Paging through Kamolmal was a treat though--I could really really go for some Son-In-Law Eggs right now.

Shit From an Old Notebook

I spent the afternoon going through my grad school files: an old, huge cardboard box containing pretty much everything I've written, read, copied, or taught over the past four years or so. Now that it's time to write the dissertation, I've decided to clean things up.

Anyway, I found the following in a notebook, dated "Tue 5/16/00"--at this time I was teaching an intro creative writing workshop. I believe the title of the free-write below (though not that free, as I managed to put it into lines) is cribbed from a Dean Young poem.

Don't Wear That Shirt With Those Pants

And mother snatched a velvet
covering from the China hutch,
recited 15 ways to make a sauce
from only chiles, vinegar and pain

and walked out back to check
on the ungodly proclivities
of her son. "It really pains
me to see you like this, Tony,

probably on dope, and have you
looked for work today? Here, take
this dollar--go buy me some
vinegar." Tony snatched the bill

away and wandered down the alley
where Tommyknocker waited
in a copse of cardboard boxes.
And at the store, they bought a bottle,

returned to Mom and sang a dusty song
about some revolutionaries and their
not-quite-natural relationship with a
flock of grackles. Mother frowned

and roasted chiles, then pounded
them to a paste, recited 50 ways
to leave your lover, but only
made it up to "Slip out the back,"

before she noticed Tony's not-
being-there. The sauce had
extra staining power that night
and was as hot as, well--something

very hot. After dinner, Tony
smoked a joint w/ Tommyknocker
and wrote a song about cashews
called "The color of my favorite nut."

Mother wasn't pleased as she put
creases in her wicked son's
favorite khaki pants. "Here, get
dressed," she screamed. "And for

God's sake don't wear those loafers--
who knows what the neighbors might
think! now here, go get a bottle
of wine--Father O'Brien is [drinking]

with us tonight. No profanity. Jesus
loves you. Tuck in your shirt.
Wash your face. And try to smile
for a change. Put away that damn guitar.

Poetry: Who Needs It?

I was having a discussion in the computer room of the English Department the other day with another grad student working in American Poetry who mentioned that he and some others had started a contemporary poetry reading group. What contemporary poets were they reading?

[Drumroll]

Seamus Heaney and Richard Wilbur.


Why do so many folks--these are poetry people working on PhDs in American poetry--not read contemporary poetry? I can't imagine one of the Film Studies students not watching new films...or science folks not reading scientific journals...

So I'm going to join the group. We'll be reading Gabriel Gudding soon. I gave the fellow from the computer room a copy of "Fons Belli" and Gabe's essay, "Dung in an Age of Empire."

Shakin' things up. Sorta.

Menu Consulting & Stuff

I've been thinking lately that most Thai (and other--but mainly Thai) restaurants need a menu consultant. What a great job for a logophile gourmand! Then it occurred to me that if Thai restaurants reworked their menus it might be difficult to tell whether or not the food was worth eating. Robinson's Law of Thai Menus stipulates that the more inscrutable the menu is, the better the food. Conversely, legible, correctly-spelled menus with appealing-sounding dishes tend to be one marker of a poor/bland/tasteless Thai eating experience. Why is that?

I ate at the new place again the other night (a "pretty" Thai restaurant with a "clean" menu). The beef salad was passable. Beef slightly overcooked. Dressing, notably, contained lemon juice instead of lime (big mistake) and the heat level was barely perceptible, despite the three stars magic-markered onto my take-out box. So, once again, the food was fairly tasty, but not particularly "authentic." (As if I know what this means, having never been to Thailand.)

My idea of authenticity in Thai comes from my own explorations in Thai cooking (begun in 1992 or so, and continued intermittently throughout the years). I was living in San Diego in '92 and I used to eat the gai yang at Saffron regularly. Although I hear Saffron is now a full-service, sit-down joint, a dozen years or so ago, it was mainly a take-out stand serving barbecued chicken with a full complement of dipping sauces, sticky rice, and the occasional salad or spring roll (these ancillary items were rotated regularly). I prepared my own Thai dishes using Thai Home Cooking From Kamolmal's Kitchen, which I just-this-instant ordered from ABE. I lent my copy to a friend years ago. The friend moved.

Memorial Day 2002

Absent not kissed how much you differ from
my earlier work. These anniversaries
glut: push: disappear where clouds ain’t floating.
They closed the coffee shop with us still in it.
Seven types of anxiety, clutter, fumble—
Later poems and much later poems and four
kinds of “not”                 Does Iowa look like Oregon or away?
You can’t rework that thing no more: it’s done.

Months later: the poems of Donne, no more, you.
Smiling we swallowed the packets           sugar?
Not kissed, unsolved, not absolved. Our sins make
fools of our circle, our love. October
leavetaking and a sonnet about Milton and bacon,
the breakfast food not the enlightenment man.

Broccoli Again

I "met" my last girlfriend on Valentine's Day. I was doing a classroom observation. I made a quick exit at the end of class, as she was quickly surrounded by needy students.

Later, in my box was a homemade watercolored Valentine, featuring a roughly heart-shaped bouquet of broccoli. This anti-Valentine was distributed to everyone in the department, so I thought nothing of it until I noticed the personalized message on the back--something about leaving the classroom too soon and missing out on a kiss. I was intrigued but not convinced. A couple weeks later we were dating. The following Valentine's day, I think we were both working. I recall nothing even vaguely romantic about it.

Do I have to mention that by the next February 14th we were broken up? I didn't think so. The beginning of our week-or-so break-up process occurred over Chinese food--an argument about money.

I'm reminded of the Maggie Nelson poem, "A Misunderstanding."
I too intend to buy "as much beer as five dollars will buy and drink it right here on the sofa."

The one thing I've shared with all my former lovers is a consuming passion for food. And cooking. And eating. Mostly eating.

Broccoli

"I hate broccoli more than George Bush."

Parse this sentence.

Notes Toward an Obese Fiction

Last night I indulged in a childhood favorite: the bacon sandwich.

Essentially a BLT without the L and T, the "B" or B&M (bacon and mayonnaise) is a perfect mix of fat, fat, and dry bread. I hadn't eaten one of these in, oh, at least fifteen years when it occurred to me in my late night fit of hunger that I had the three necessary ingredients on hand: soft white characterless sandwich bread, thin supermarket bacon, and fake mayonnaise, by which I mean NOT what the East Coasters call "Hellman's" and what the rest of us call "Best Foods." I mean what in my youth used to be called "Imitation Mayonnaise" until marketing folks in the health-conscious 90s decided they could move more units by calling it "Light Mayonnaise." No matter--same product. Best Foods/Hellman's does make a version (and it was lauded by America's Test Kitchen) but for my money, Nalley's Light is the way to go. Less greasy than real mayo and more tangy (but not annoyingly so, like Miracle Whip), it provides the perfect hint of moisture to a sandwich composed of two parts crunchy/crispy. The slight vinegar tang helps to cut the fat bacon mouthfeel as well.

Since I almost never have fresh produce on hand (I dash to the Farmer's Market or Safeway when I need something--I try not to abuse my fruits and veggies by allowing them to perish in my unevenly cool fridge), this is the perfect spur-of-the-moment snack. Friday at midnight is not the time to be running to the greengrocer, in any case.

And I always have bacon on hand. But never eggs.

The composition of the sandwich is quite simple. Toast the bread, slather with fake mayo, and top with a few slices of crispy bacon. The microwave is helpful here.

It was delicious. And I won't have another for at least a few weeks.

Also good is the PBB--Peanut Butter and Bacon. I used to love these things as a kid. As an adult, I've noticed that the rather aggressive tastes of peanut and bacon tend to fight each other. If you use a sweeter peanut butter and a very smoky bacon, a flavor balance can be achieved. But bland salty bacon and bland salty peanut butter make a bland salty sandwich. It's worth a try though, if you're a PBB virgin.


Today then, I had a pork roast sandwich. Same formula--white bread, fake mayo, pork roast. The roast is much leaner than the belly bacon. It also is over-seasoned with fennel. I'll go lighter on the fennel next time.

Tonight's repast will be whatever I can cobble together from the take-out boxes on the top shelf. I've got two boxes of Thai and three of Chinese. And some Korean ramen.

Friday Night Dinner

New Thai joint: Manola.

Service: slow slow slow. The waiter offered me a free dessert of coconut ice cream. I politely declined.

Springrolls--bland. Cabbage & bean-thread noodles. Not much else. Served with an over-sweet plum sauce and a peanut sauce that lacked depth. Peanuts, yes, coconut milk, yes, but I was unable to detect the richness that comes from roasted chiles, fish sauce and tamarind, among other things.

Grapefruit Salad--Really a chicken/cabbage salad with sections of not grapefruit, but mandarin orange. Tasty, but not particularly Thai-tasting. It's as if they've made a conscious effort to omit all the "funky" ingredients that separate Thai food from other Asian cuisines and pseudo-cuisines. I believe Manola has invented a particularly pretty but bland brand of pseudo-Thai, eschewing such things as fish sauce, chiles, and so forth.

Grade: C

I'll go back. The restaurant had only been open for 3 days. I was disappointed, but full.

Breakfast

Pixies: "La La Love You."

One triple Americano in a biodegradable paper cup. One-half hunk of stale lemon-poppyseed poundcake.

Two dozen close readings of Shakespeare's sonnet 84.

In whose confine immured is the store that can produce such...such...
Or, why do I spend my Valentine's Saturday morning and afternoon in such a manner?

Rust never sleeps.

Our United States

Chris Hoppes, furniture salesman, childhood friend, and local Alexis DeTocqueville, has sent along this note. I should mention that it was a private email in response to the blog--I've asked his permission to reprint it here. Hoppes' opinions are not necessarily my own.

+ + +

Sorry you had to go to St. Louis. I know it sucks. I
was born there. That was 1968. It sucked then. It
sucks now. However, they have much more experience in
sucking now than they did when I was living there.

My travels this past year have taught me several
things.

1) New York City rocks. The people there are
friendly, which came to me as a shock, but its true.
Great town, great people.

2) Philadelphia is a dirty, smelly scumhole.

3) People in Boston are mean and suffer from an
inferiority complex. The origin of this complex
eludes me.

4) People in Atlanta are desperate to convince the
rest of the country that their city is a place of
culture, filled with educated and urbane people. It
is not, and they are not.

5) If you're white and live in Mississippi, chances
are you're racist. If you're black and live in
Mississippi, chances are you're poor.

6) Every function in Chicago revolves around food.
If you're working, playing, vacationing, chances are,
you end up or start off in an eatery. This is why I
love Chicago.

7) I've been on roughly 200 flights since 9/11. It's
very easy to spot casual flyers in airports these
days. They're the idiots causing a ruckus in the
security checkpoints. The rest of us business
travelers who have to be in airports on a regular
basis want to see them killed.

Songs for Sanity

I was born in a silly basket,
my daddy’s breadbox greater and more silent than Clara Bow.

I was a traveler and a science-fiction ideologue chomping
at a fair fair franchised piece o’ bitsy.

I was a San Francisco purple flounder
given to tantrums and poshlost, cancer and jaunts to Soho.

*

This boat of clay has spun on Tuesday’s tide:
my brother’s name is Outrigger.

Thinking about what a friend had said and hoping
that bastard would fry.

Jose Jones bought the film rights and your action is
affably laughable, motherfucker.

*

i love the spring. fits and the poor mutts, the early crack
of baseball bats and sewer rats shooting smack and creamy

mice rack, out back. australia’s lack of silly string may bring
lord of the dance, lady of the diamond ring. she’s stacked.

i washed my back with irish spring. when i was black, i smacked
of bling. adjust the tracking to avoid attacking aesofetida (hing).

fancy put her kelly in my stomach, in my sack. save up some
sperms from last week’s nasdaq. grab a sandwich, blow, then hack.

*

Pappy was a lonely grifter, adrift on a sea of sprezzatura.
I met my wife long after the mist—Shaugnessy (up) left the nude lug.

Channel-surfing fridge magnet, madly surging flannel big rig.
Put Chris Hoppes in your pipe and smoke it, popish vagrant.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye.

Supersuckers

Last night I caught the Supersuckers at the WOW Hall. A good show, rawk-n-roll all the way. Cowboy hats, sweat, snotty attitude, confused teenagers, confused middle-aged hippies, and so forth. Highlight: the cover of "Hey Ya" at the end. I saw a couple of rock purist fucks walk out when they busted into it, but most folks stayed on and grooved. Hannah called me a "fuckin' pussy" or something along those lines because I had to sit down half-way through the show. I can't help it--I'm old. My feet hurt, I was drunk. Besides, I'm saving my rock and roll energy for the Pixies.

Before the show, we met at the Dive Bar & Grill for food and drink. I had a pint of ESB and a Scotch on the rocks. I also ate something called a Texas Cheesesteak, which would have been good, I think, if not for the crumble-crumble fall away bread. I ended up with a mess. The potato salad was pretty good, though--tangy, not too sweet, uneven texture, which I like. Hannah's Goat Cheese Plate became a Goat Cheese salad, which caused much confusion. Finally, though, the goat cheese was eaten with little bits of sun-dried tomato and cute garlic crouton-things. Damn. I'm getting hungry.

Ramen

I buy my beer at a local convenience store called Little's Market. Little's has a surprisingly good and varied selection of beer, soft drinks, wine, ice cream, and ramen. The ramen isn't any fake American stuff, either. In fact, it's so un-American that it's nearly impossible to tell what you're buying. At any one time, the shelves are stocked with at least a dozen varieties of very colorful ramen, priced at 89 cents, all in Korean.

I always buy a package, usually after several beers, take it home, cook it, and then forget about it. Occasionally, though, I'll find a REALLY GOOD ramen, but since I don't read Korean, I have a hard time remembering which is which. I've come up with a solution. I plan on buying two packs of ramen every few days, photographing each package, and then recording the tasting results immediately after. I'll post the findings here. I've got a green package and a red package in my cupboard. Watch this space for a detailed analysis.

More dinner: Nick Twemlow and Josh Edwards

I've had many meals with these guys. For the longest time, the three of us (and sometimes Nick's lovely wife, Robyn) would convene to eat, drink whiskey, and talk poetry at a local Asian/Italian joint called Lucky Noodle. Josh always seemed to have trouble deciding what to eat, and then, finally, one night he looked up from his menu and said, "I don't like noodles."

Maybe you had to be there.

The last time I ate with Josh and Nick was at an Indian restaurant called Priya. We were happily discussing Lyn Hejinian, Arielle Greenberg, and Anthony Hecht (one of these things is not like the other....) when a woman at the next table leaned over and shouted at us, "Who are you?" Turns out she was a new hire in the English Dept. at UO. The food was very good. Afterward we edited Canary for many hours.

My manuscript, 'lucky error," contains a poem in which Josh and Nick eat dinner. It's called "Kansas."

Valentine Haiku

If I believed love
was as important as lunch
I’d be much thinner.

Pixies Reunion

The Pixies are playing here in Eugene at the MacDonald Theater on April 27, 2004.
I thought I'd never see the day.

Anyone every notice how in "Gouge Away" the verses are where the chorus is supposed to be, and the "quiet" "verse" sections are actually the chorus?